An Intern at Baker Street
by alphalacey
Summary: Watson and Sherlock need somebody to take notes. Enter Charlotte Green-unmistakably bright, sharp-witted, and impossibly alluring. Will it be her curiosity for criminology that keeps her at Baker Street, or something else entirely? Begins at the end of season one with The Great Game.
1. Prologue

John Watson's fingers flew quickly over the keys on his laptop, his eyes glued to the document in front of him. This was the way he had been for nearly an hour. "We need an intern," he proclaimed suddenly, turning in his chair to glance at Sherlock as he scrubbed a hand down his fatigued face.

"A what?" Sherlock questioned, in his usual armchair with his nose in a book.

"An intern," Watson repeated, knowing full-well that Sherlock knew the meaning. "You know, some eager young upstart from the university. Someone to hang 'round and do all the meaningless tasks we don't want to do."

"Why on earth would we need an intern?" Sherlock questioned, setting the book in his lap and lifting his face to look at Watson.

"The notes," Watson answered simply, gesturing to his laptop.

"You do the notes," Sherlock returned, sounding bored.

"Yes, I write the notes," Watson responded. "But the problem is transcribing them electronically. We've been so busy as of late that I've fallen behind. I've lost track of some pages completely. It makes it hard to write my blog when—"

"Not your blog," Sherlock interjected, making a face. "You're telling me we need an intern for the purposes of your blog?"

"Well…yes," Watson replied, somewhat reluctantly. He sighed out and angled himself completely toward his friend. "Admit it, it helps the case load. We've only been as busy as we have because of the popularity my blog has gotten you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please." He took up his book once again.

Watson sighed and turned back to his laptop, continuing his typing.

"We can barely afford to live, how are we supposed to pay an intern?" Sherlock questioned sometime later, breaking the relative silence.

John smiled to himself in triumph, but didn't dare turn to Sherlock as he answered. "Most interns work for free. That's the beauty of it."

"Why would somebody possibly work for free in this economy?" Sherlock questioned.

"That's students for you," Watson answered. "They'll do just about anything so long as it looks good on a CV."

"Hm," Sherlock grunted, repositioning in his chair slightly.

John waited a moment. "So, I'll post the ad, then?" he inquired.

"Hm?" Sherlock muttered, as if forgetting what they had just spoken about. "Oh, yes. Do as you wish. I doubt anyone even shows up."

* * *

The next morning when Baker Street opened its doors to potential clients, it was met with an influx of hungry-looking 18-24 year-olds clutching CVs.

An hour later, after two-dozen 'interviews,' Sherlock let out a ferocious sigh and stood, clomping over to the door. "Mrs. Hudson, I need a break!" he bellowed. "Don't you dare let another one of those ingrates in until I say!"

He slammed the door to their flat and turned to John. "Well, I hope you're pleased," he growled. He moved to stand by the window, looking out onto the line of hopefuls that still stretched around the side of the building. "You've invited the entirety of the Under 25's fan club into our home."

Watson sat in his armchair, looking overwhelmed. "Sherlock, believe me when I say I didn't realize you had such a following," he responded. He leafed through a few of the CVs they had collected already and then set them decisively on the side table with a frustrated sigh. "Rubbish. All of them. Absolute rubbish."

Most of the applicants they had seen already had seemed more interested in getting a bit of face time with Sherlock Holmes than with the internship itself. Sherlock had taken one look at most of them and turned them away, and the ones who were allowed the space to speak were terribly disappointing.

"What's a selfie?" Sherlock asked pointedly, walking back to his armchair with his brow creased.

Watson let out a snort of laughter. "Are you serious?" he asked.

"Of course I'm serious," Sherlock responded, narrowing his eyes slightly. "That last one asked me for a selfie, and I would very much like to know what it is."

Watson was opening his mouth to reply when the door knob turned and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock admonished. "I told you, no interruptions."

"Sorry, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson responded. "But this young lady is demanding to see you at once. She's on a bit of a time crunch."

"Meaning?" Watson asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Meaning I have class in an hour, and I've still got the tube to contend with," another voice chimed in, sounding slightly annoyed. Mrs. Hudson opened the door further to reveal their candidate. She was a young woman, red-haired, freckled, and tall. She politely shouldered past Mrs. Hudson and walked decisively toward the chair in the center of the room. She sat down and un-shouldered her bag, letting it plop to the floor at her feet. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson, but I really can't be waiting around all day."

Mrs. Hudson flashed her a smile. "You're very welcome, dear. I'll let you three get to it." She bobbed her eyebrows and closed the door.

The young woman leaned forward to hand her CV to John, then sat back in her seat, adjusting her blazer as she did. She crossed her legs at the ankle and folded her hands in her lap, raising her face to stare expectantly at Sherlock as John pored over the page in his hand. "Well, aren't you going to ask me something?" she wondered expectantly. "This is an interview, isn't it?"

"That's John's bit," Sherlock replied, scrutinizing her. "I already know everything I need to know."

"My name, even?" the young woman asked, looking impressed.

Sherlock tried not to scowl. "I suppose not," he answered. "Would you mind doing me the honor?"

"Charlotte Green," the redhead introduced herself, a confident smile gracing her lips. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Holmes. As I'm sure you have already deduced, I think I'm an excellent candidate for the internship."

"Which brings me to my first question," John spoke up, putting the CV in his lap as he addressed his candidate. "Why do you think you're a good fit for this position, Charlotte?"

"For starters," Charlotte said, meeting Sherlock's eye briefly as if they were sharing in a private joke, "I'm not one of the hundreds of fanatics I just line-jumped to get in here."

"Hm. That bodes well," John responded, scratching something down in his notes. He looked back up at her. "But how did you get past them?"

"I walked," Charlotte stated simply. "By the time they realized what I was doing, Mrs. Hudson had already let me in." She shrugged a shoulder. "They may be willing to wait in line all day for a glimpse at the magnificent Mr. Holmes, but I have a schedule to stick to."

John nodded. "So, if you're not a fanatic, then why are you here?" he wondered.

"She's interested in the work," Sherlock answered for her. "You study psychology, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," Charlotte replied. "And I double in economics."

"I saw that in your CV," John responded, before Sherlock could. "Couldn't quite figure out why, though. Seems like two very different areas of study to me."

"If I devote my life to psychology, I still want to know how to handle my money," Charlotte explained. "And if I become some sort of economist, well…you have to know people to know money."

John seemed satisfied with that answer, even impressed, but Sherlock shook his head slowly. "You study economics because you've never had money," he said. "Your parents did the best they could, but drugs are expensive and job prospects for addicts aren't exactly bountiful. When ends stopped meeting, they pawned you and your younger sibling off on an unwilling relative who gave you beds to sleep in, food in your mouths, but nothing in the way of affection. As soon as you were of age, you moved out, taking said sibling—a sister, I think—with you. You've been working minimum-wage jobs ever since to support the two of you. Some time ago, you got yourself a scholarship so you could study what you've always taken interest in but never understood—the psychology of the caregiver and how it was possible that yours could have gotten it so horribly wrong." He sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers and looking very pleased with himself.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said under his breath. He rubbed at his chin and looked nervously at Charlotte. "He—we—I am deeply sorry, Charlotte. My God, I—"

"It's a brother," Charlotte interrupted, seeming unperturbed. "My younger sibling."

"Drat," Sherlock said, snapping and looking disappointed in himself.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, you got everything else right," Charlotte responded.

Watson looked between the two of them, almost perturbed. "Hang on. You're saying that none of that bothered you?" he asked Charlotte incredulously.

"It's nothing I don't already know," Charlotte responded, shrugging a shoulder. "Gets that part out of the way. No need to shell out for a background check. And it saves us all the awkward personal conversations that could have been had." She cracked a smile. "Besides, I figured you would probably make deductions to test me."

John eyed Sherlock, one corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Someone's been doing her research."

"If you call reading your Yelp reviews research," Charlotte joked.

"What is a Yelp?" Sherlock asked pointedly, looking to Watson.

Charlotte chuckled. "You can get my entire life history from a look, but you don't know what Yelp is?" she wondered.

"I only keep valuable information," Sherlock informed her. "Weeding out the useless helps keep my mind functioning at an optimal level."

Charlotte nodded. "I see." She glanced at John. "Next question?"

"Yes, of course," John moved forward. "Do you have any experience with this sort of work?"

"You mean typing?" Charlotte responded. "Well, I—"

Sherlock interjected with a scoff, rolling his eyes. "She's twenty-something, Watson, of course she can type."

Watson gave him a peeved look. "Right," he grunted.

"My question is, given your current circumstances, do you anticipate being able to keep a job that's unpaid?" Sherlock asked.

John looked embarrassed, but Charlotte took it in stride. "I've recently come into some money," she shared.

"I knew it!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What gave it away?" Charlotte wondered, cocking her head to the side.

"Your shoes," Sherlock confessed. "The rest of your outfit is old—well kept, but it's clear your clothes have seen use. Even before all the washing, ironing, and folding the brands are modest. Your shoes, on the other hand, are brand name and brand new—an extravagant purchase. You would never waste your salary or savings on money that could pay the bills or put food in your brother's mouth." He smiled the slightest bit, knowing he was right. "My guess is inheritance from aforementioned unwilling caretaker. A relative you aren't attached to and money your hard work didn't earn. I believe they call it mad money."

"Just the shoes," Charlotte said, almost defensive. "I put the rest in savings, but…"

"Hardly something to be ashamed about," John interjected sensitively. "It sounds like you've worked hard over the years." He cleared his throat and offered a half-smile. "So what if you want a pair of shoes?"

Charlotte grinned back appreciatively. "I have," she accepted the credit. "Point is, I'm ready to finally work at something that I'm interested in. That's why I'm here."

"What makes you so interested?" John wondered.

Charlotte paused for a moment, assuming Sherlock might give the entire interview for her. When she realized he wouldn't, she pressed on. "I really did do my research. After I saw your job posting last night, I read some articles from the paper and your blog, Dr. Watson." She sat up straighter in her chair, making eye contact with Sherlock. "I think what you do is fascinating, Mr. Holmes. I've found myself considering criminal psychology more than once and I figured, what better place to find out more?"

"So, since you've considered the field of criminology before, I assume you know the nature of the work," John responded. "You understand that some of the things in the notes you'll be transcribing will be…unpleasant?"

"I understand," Charlotte answered, nodding. "It might take some getting used to, but I guess that's part of the game."

Watson wrote something down in his notes, nodding to himself. "And how many days a week would you be able to work?" he asked.

"The ad said two, right?" Charlotte clarified. "Two of my choosing?"

"That's correct," Watson replied. "Any two days of the week. The criminals don't exclude the weekends and neither do we."

Charlotte laughed softly. "I doubt I'll be spending my weekends here. I am a university student, after all. I have a social life."

"Noted," Sherlock deadpanned.

Charlotte's phone began to buzz in her bag.

"And that will be your reminder to leave for class," Sherlock conjectured astutely.

"It is," Charlotte confirmed. "But I can stay if…"

"Quite all right," Watson responded. "I think we have everything we need." He flashed a smile in her direction. "Thank you, Charlotte. We'll be in contact."

Charlotte smiled back and nodded. "Thank you again," she told them, rising to stand. She adjusted her trousers and then bent to pick up her bag. "And good luck with the rest of today. I have a feeling you'll need it." She smiled again as she turned and walked out of the flat.

The sound of the door closing echoed up the stairs as Charlotte left. Mrs. Hudson's footsteps were heard ascending the stairs before the door re-opened. "Shall I send the next one up?" the landlady inquired, poking her head into the room.

"Give us a minute, would you, Mrs. Hudson?" John requested. "I'd like to discuss the previous candidate before we move on."

"Move on?" Sherlock inquired incredulously. "Send the rest of them home, Mrs. Hudson. We've found our intern."

Mrs. Hudson turned to leave.

"No! Mrs. Hudson, do not send anyone home," John ordered, putting a hand up.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson tutted, turning back to them and putting her hands on her hips. "What shall I do, boys? I don't enjoy being yanked about."

Sherlock let out a harrowed sigh and rolled his eyes, switching his gaze to Watson. "What is there to discuss, Watson?" he demanded. "She's qualified, intelligent, and—more importantly—hiring her will save us from having to converse with the rest of the imbeciles waiting outside."

"Yes, but…" John made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "She might be too…"

Realization washed over Sherlock's face. "You're afraid she's too attractive," he stated, sneering slightly. "That's it, isn't it? I'm right, aren't I?"

Watson turned red, spluttering denials in Sherlock's direction. Mrs. Hudson began to giggle, clamping a polite hand over her mouth. "Mrs. Hudson!" John scolded, swiveling to give her a betrayed look.

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Hudson apologized, trying to suppress her laughter. "It's just so obvious, isn't it?"

John placed his face in his hands and let out a groan.

"Shall I go downstairs and bring back all eight men that I've picked out in the line?" Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows. "It will absolutely emaciate our options, but if you don't feel able to control yourself—"

John's head snapped up and he gave Sherlock a scathing look. "It's not about 'controlling myself,'" he argued. "But, if we look at historical fact, I'm terrible at talking to beautiful women. She will be my responsibility, since you don't bother yourself with the notes or the blog—or people, for the most part. If can't talk to her, how am I supposed to work with her?"

"Perhaps this will be a good exercise for you, Watson," Sherlock mused, peering at his friend over his steepled fingers. "Maybe being in Charlotte's presence two days a week will be helpful in curing this bizarre…affliction of yours." Watson gave him another look, but Sherlock put his hands up in surrender. "I will run interference as much as I can," he offered. "I'll do anything, so long as I don't have to waste another minute of my valuable time on the fanatics queueing downstairs."

Watson sighed out, coming around to Sherlock's side of things. "I can't take another one, either," he admitted. He ran a hand through the side of his hair as he thought to himself.

"Oh, and I do so like her," Mrs. Hudson spoke up, looking hopeful. "She's got moxie. Something I like to see in a young woman."

"Mrs. Hudson has spoken," Sherlock said, clapping. "It's decided." He stood from his chair. "I'm going to tell the other hopefuls to get on with their pathetic little lives." He practically skipped out of the flat and down the stairs, eager to send the others home and get back to work.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, readers! I have recently discovered the beauty that is Sherlock. Might be a one-shot, might not. Who knows! Let me know what you think, especially if you want to read more :)**


	2. The Great Game

The following Tuesday, Charlotte rang the bell of 221B Baker Street promptly at nine o'clock.

Mrs. Hudson opened up. "Welcome back, Charlotte," she greeted sunnily, letting her in. "Can I bring you a cup of tea?"

"I'm all right, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte answered. "I came prepared." She held up a take-away coffee cup.

"You're a coffee drinker?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, raising her eyebrows. "I suppose you are part of the younger crowd. They're wild for it these days."

Charlotte chuckled. "I've found it does the trick better than tea," she responded. "Worse for me, but it's kept me awake in a pinch."

"I've never had the stomach for the stuff," Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "You'll have to teach me how to make it one of these days. I can't be denying you your cuppa, when I'm serving the boys one every other hour."

"It's quite all right," Charlotte reassured her.

"Well, then," Mrs. Hudson said, turning to begin ascending the stairs. "I must warn you, the flat is in a bit of disarray. There was an explosion last night."

"Here?" Charlotte questioned, shocked at Mrs. Hudson's flippant air.

"No. Across the street," the landlady answered, shaking her head. "Blasted out the windows, though. The place is an absolute mess. It's put Sherlock in good spirits, though."

"Good to hear," Charlotte replied, sounding more confused than cheered by the news.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the flat and stepped aside. "Have a great first day, dear," she told Charlotte. "I'll be up from time to time to check in. Do have fun."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte replied, trying a smile as she stepped into the flat.

At her entrance, Sherlock, John, and a man unknown to Charlotte turned to look at her.

"Ah, Charlotte," John greeted, looking almost surprised. He checked his watch quickly. "It's your first day, isn't it?"

Charlotte nodded, still wearing the unsure smile she had left Mrs. Hudson with. "Is this a bad time?" she asked.

"No, no, not at all," John was quick to assure her. "We're all just a bit…frazzled at the moment."

"Frazzled? Who's frazzled?" Sherlock inquired. "I'm feeling quite exhilarated by recent events."

John gave him an annoyed look.

"I heard about the explosion," Charlotte responded, taking a few more steps into the room. She saw that the floor was still littered with glass.

"Yes, I hope you enjoy an open-air work environment," John joked half-heartedly. "Won't have anyone in to fix it till tomorrow, I'm afraid."

"It's okay, I brought a coat," Charlotte said.

"She brought a coat," the mystery man chuckled. "Delightful." He stood and stepped closer, extending a hand. "Mycroft Holmes."

Charlotte was struck with realization. She took his hand and shook. "I'm Charlotte Green," she introduced. "If you don't mind me saying, the resemblance isn't terribly striking."

"Thank you," both Mycroft and Sherlock replied in unison. They gave each other the same peeved look.

"I take it you're the new intern?" Mycroft questioned, retracting his hand and stepping back.

"Yes, sir," Charlotte answered, nodding.

"How did you know we had hired an intern?" Sherlock asked his brother with an accusatory air.

"I know all, little brother," Mycroft replied, smiling to himself. He nodded to Charlotte. "The pleasure is all mine, Charlotte, but if you'll excuse me, I must speak to my brother about a case."

"That works out just fine," John jumped in as Mycroft turned to converse with Sherlock. "I'll give you the lay of the land."

Charlotte followed him to the kitchen, which was cluttered with peculiar instruments. "I take it you don't keep much food around," she commented, noticing a few of the cupboards open and barren.

"Er, no," John answered honestly. "I would actually not recommend opening any cupboard or door, unless you're ready for a shock. I found a head in the freezer yesterday, and I can't promise it's gone."

"A human head?" Charlotte asked, her eyes widening slightly.

"Mm," John hummed, avoiding eye contact. "If you're hungry for anything, just call down to Mrs. Hudson."

"Noted," Charlotte replied.

John walked back out toward the living room and she followed. "Bathroom's over there," he informed her, pointing. "My room's there. Sherlock's there."

"Don't go snooping," Sherlock cut in, giving Charlotte a pointed look.

"If there are heads in your freezer, Mr. Holmes, I don't care to discover what's in your bedroom," Charlotte responded, quite honestly.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me at all?" Mycroft demanded.

Charlotte continued after John, who led her over to the desk by the window.

"This is you," he told her, gesturing to the small chair and desk space. "I've cleaned it off for you today, but sometimes I don't have a chance to tidy up. I apologize in advance for that."

"I'll add organization and tidying to my daily tasks," Charlotte responded, noticing the disheveled stacks of paper surrounding the workspace. "It's not a problem."

"Excellent," John chirped. "But know that I don't expect it." He turned and gestured at a collection of green folders, neatly placed in a file rack. "Green folders are notes that have been organized—you'll find the name of the case on the outside of each folder, and the pages are organized by date and time."

Charlotte nodded and then spied the thick, red folder that seemed to be bursting at the seams. "And red means unorganized?" she guessed.

"At least the ones that fit into the folder," John replied with a sheepish smile.

Charlotte took a second look at the stacks of paper surrounding the desk. "Ah," she said.

"If you get done with the green, feel free to tackle the red and otherwise. There are empty green folders you can sort them into," John told her. Even as he said it, he looked doubtful.

"I'll see what I can do," Charlotte responded, eyeing the mess with determination.

"Any questions?" John wondered.

Charlotte took her time, thinking over her instructions thus far. "No, sir," she replied.

John made a face. "Not quite sure how I feel about 'sir,'" he voiced.

"Felt really wrong to say," Charlotte admitted with a relieved chuckle. "I know you're a military man, so I thought it might be a…formality…or something."

"Doesn't have to be," Watson replied, shaking his head. "Dr. Watson will be fine. Or John. Whichever suits."

"I like John," Charlotte mused. "Bit more familiar sounding. Although, I've been advised more than once not to get too familiar with my boss."

Watson averted his eyes and hoped he wasn't blushing. "Oh?" he rasped.

Charlotte's face flushed and she quickly covered its redness with her hand. "Not what I meant," she mumbled into her palm. "Totally not what I meant."

"Quite all right," John reassured her, though he felt his own face growing hot. "I understand…I think." He cleared his throat loudly and shifted on his feet.

Charlotte quickly swept her hand off of her face and straightened up like a soldier. "Typing," she stated. "I'd best get to my typing. Lots to do today." She turned on heel and plopped down in her chair. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she said, not daring to look at him.

"Don't mention it," John replied, feeling like he was crawling in his skin. He turned away to let her get to work, and could guess the nature of the Holmes' conversation by the deep scowl on Mycroft's face.

"That USB drive contains top-secret national security measures, Sherlock," Mycroft said to his younger brother. "You must take the case."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he relinquished begrudgingly. "I'll see what I can do."

Mycroft smiled, looking pleased with himself. He rose to his feet. "I'll leave now before you have a chance to change your mind."

"Yes, good idea," Sherlock drawled, glancing toward the door.

"Pleasure to meet you, Charlotte," Mycroft said as he shouldered his jacket. "I'm eager to see just how long you last among this lot."

"Me too, sir," Charlotte responded, her eyes fixed to the laptop screen as she began her typing. "I'll see you the next time, then."

Mycroft nodded curtly and exited the flat, clomping down the stairs.

Sherlock waited until he heard the door shut down below. "So, how many times have you gotten too familiar with your boss, exactly?" he asked, switching all his attention to Charlotte.

Charlotte was so stunned that she swiveled around in her seat. "Were you listening to a word your brother said?"

"That case sounded important, Sherlock," John scolded. "Please, tell me you weren't just eavesdropping that entire time."

"Mycroft bores me, as do his cases," Sherlock justified. "How many times?"

"Charlotte, you don't have to answer that," John assured her. "Sherlock, behave yourself."

"She brought it up willingly," Sherlock pointed out.

Charlotte sighed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Never, actually," she answered. "But I've been warned against it, like I said."

"You're telling the truth," Sherlock grumbled disappointedly, slumping back in his chair.

"Of course I am," Charlotte said. "You don't have to worry about me, Mr. Holmes."

"Who says I'm worried?" Sherlock countered, looking offended.

"Everything about you, at the moment," Charlotte stated with an amused snort. She turned back to the laptop and continued transcribing the page she had been working on.

Sherlock scowled at her back and was about to retort when his cell phone rang. He answered it and spoke few words before hanging up. "Watson, we're wanted at Scotland Yard," he summarized, looking to his partner.

"But what about Mycroft's thing?" Watson wondered, looking confused.

"Eh, we'll get to it," Sherlock assured him flippantly. He stood and strode toward the door. "Hold down the fort, Scarlett."

"Charlotte," the intern corrected, not glancing up. "Scarlett Green would be absurd."

"I suppose it would," Sherlock had to admit. He chuckled to himself as he grabbed his coat off the rack. "Ta-ta, then." He swept out the door and down the stairs.

"We shouldn't be too long," John assured her, pausing in the doorway.

"I'll try not to nick anything," Charlotte joked, waving him off.

John smiled at the joke and shook his head as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Perhaps an hour later, the landline on John's desk began to ring, nearly startling Charlotte out of her chair. Once she had regained normal heart rhythms, she stared at the phone, wondering what to do. John hadn't given her instruction to answer the phone, but it seemed like something that an intern might be expected to do. She reached for it, but then retracted her hand, uncertain. To her relief, the ringing ended shortly after and she was able to return to her typing. She had made it through one case in its entirety, which only made her eager to get onto the next.

Not thirty seconds later, the phone rang again, eliciting her frustrated sigh. She stared the handset down, willing it to stop making noise. She put her head down and continued with her work, attempting to ignore its shrill voice.

When it rang the third time, fifteen seconds later, she couldn't take it anymore. She snatched it off the hook and pressed the receiver to her ear. "You've reached 221B Baker Street. Intern speaking," she answered, sounding more hospitable than she felt.

"Oh, good. You do know how to pick up a phone," Sherlock complimented satirically. "I was beginning to worry about your mental capacities."

Charlotte snorted, unamused. "Do you have something to say, Mr. Holmes, or are you simply calling to insult my intelligence?" she wondered.

"Something to say," Sherlock clarified. "Charlotte, I would like you to leave your desk and take a walk through the neighborhood. Grab a pastry while you're out, if you can bear it. Be gone for at least twenty minutes."

"What?" Charlotte asked, utterly perplexed. She heard Watson's muffled voice on the other end of the line, but couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Ah, yes, and invite Mrs. Hudson along," Sherlock instructed. "I'm sure she'd love the fresh air."

"Mr. Holmes, I don't know what you think—"

"Charlotte, just do it. You must do it," Sherlock interjected.

Through the frustrated tone of his voice, Charlotte heard something that made her believe he was being serious. "Er…okay," she replied. She rose from her desk, grabbing her coat off the back of the chair. She tucked the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she put her arms through the sleeves. "Anything else?" she asked.

"That will be it for now," Sherlock responded. The line clicked off.

Charlotte put the phone back on the hook and headed for the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" she hollered.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, just as instructed, Charlotte and Mrs. Hudson turned the corner at Baker Street and began striding back toward the flat.

"Oh, what a lovely time this has been," Mrs. Hudson chirped. "I don't get out for walks often enough."

"Me either," Charlotte responded, sounding slightly distracted. She had spied the police cruiser parked outside 221B.

"Lestrade must have come 'round," Mrs. Hudson observed, seeming to think nothing of it. "I wonder if the boys are back."

Charlotte shrugged, but picked up the pace all the way back to the front stoop, eager to find out what was happening.

"Sherlock! John!" Mrs. Hudson bellowed in through the open door. "Who left my door ajar?"

Charlotte stepped inside and peered around, hearing footsteps coming from an unknown location. Eventually, Sherlock, Watson, and a man she took to be Lestrade came into view from below.

"What in heaven's name were you doing in the basement?" Mrs. Hudson queried.

Sherlock held up a pair of trainers, as if in response.

"We received a picture of 221C, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade informed the landlady.

"We thought there was a possibility somebody had rigged explosives down there," John elaborated. "You know, given the events of yesterday evening."

"Hence the fool's errand," Sherlock sniffed, briefly glancing at Charlotte.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson responded. She chuckled slightly, patting Charlotte's forearm. "You were so calm, dear, I had no idea at all."

"Neither did I," Charlotte replied, giving Sherlock a peeved look.

"Believe me, I wanted to tell you flat out," Sherlock defended simply. "Dr. Watson seemed to want to spare you the panic."

"Speaking of panic," Lestrade said, bobbing his eyebrows at Sherlock and Watson. "We'd best be going, don't you think, boys?"

"What's going on?" Charlotte questioned.

Both Watson and Lestrade looked hesitant to answer, at which point Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. "My God, she's not a child," he scoffed. "We've just received a rather peculiar call from a woman who's strapped to her ears with explosives. If we don't solve the case of the mysterious trainers within 12 hours time, she will be detonated," he explained to Charlotte concisely.

"Detonated?" Charlotte spluttered, her eyes widening.

"Happy typing," Sherlock dismissed, striding past her and out the door.

Lestrade and Watson seemed to have no choice but to follow. "Just worry about the notes, Charlotte," Watson said, turning to face her before rushing off. "Everything will be fine."

* * *

Charlotte found typing did little in the way of distraction. Even while she transcribed, her mind drifted to Sherlock and Watson, wondering how they were managing. She fretted about this woman she didn't know, whose life was their hands.

When the landline rang at around the two hour mark, Charlotte practically pounced on it. "221B Baker Street. Intern speaking," she answered promptly.

"Charlotte," Sherlock's voice floated over the line. "I have a job for you."

"Yes, what is it?" she questioned, eager to be of help in some way.

"I need you to go onto the website," Sherlock instructed. "Tell me when you're there."

Charlotte hurriedly clicked the internet icon on John's screen and then typed in the address. "There," she announced.

"Please, type these words and these words only into a post: Poisoned with clostridium botulinum through eczema medication used on feet," Sherlock articulated.

Charlotte's fingers flew over the keyboard. "Done," she said. "Should I post it?"

"Are you sure you spelled it right?" Sherlock asked.

"'Course," Charlotte insisted. "What sort of idiot doesn't know how to spell clostridium botulinum?" She cracked a smile despite herself.

"Very well," Sherlock responded. "Post it."

Charlotte clicked the 'enter' button and off her post went. "I've done it," she told him.

"Charlotte Green, I do believe you've just saved a woman's life," Sherlock told her.

"Not a bad first day," Charlotte said in response, trying not to sound as dizzy as she felt.

"Not bad at all," Sherlock echoed. "You can expect us back soon enough." He hung up.

As it turned out, Sherlock and Watson did not return as indicated and, their absence, Charlotte worked like a fiend. It was seldom that she was completely alone—or what felt like completely alone, even with Mrs. Hudson's occasional check-ins. For the first time, she realized how productive one could be in the quiet of solitude.

Her day-to-day consisted of other people and their noise. She woke early in the cramped flat she shared with her brother, ate a quiet breakfast under the chorus of his snores, then stepped over his sofa bed to get out the front door. She walked the bustling streets of peripheral London to get to the crowded underground. She fought through the hordes of meandering students on campus to learn among them, eat among them, and study among them in the library. By the time she endured the commuter traffic to get back to her flat, her brother was home from work and in front of the telly, playing a loud video game on his XBox.

Though, she knew she was fortunate to have what she had, she wondered how much she could have gotten down without all the distractions.

Her fingers click-clacked wildly against the laptop keys as these thoughts raced through her head. She typed one, then two, then three entire case files. She took a quick break for lunch, and was back at it again, finishing four, then five, then six. When she reached for the seventh, she grasped at air. Lifting her head in surprise, she realized the file rack was empty.

That was when the phone rang.

"221B Baker Street. Intern—"

"Yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted her. "Quite redundant."

Charlotte scratched at her forehead. "You need something from me?" she asked.

"Log back onto the website," Sherlock ordered.

"Mhm…" Charlotte muttered, clicking back onto the tab. "What this time?"

"Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia," Sherlock stated.

"A bit of flair to this one," Charlotte commented, typing it in.

"Just send it," Sherlock told her, sounding annoyed.

"I don't expect I'll ever get a please out of you, will I?" Charlotte asked, clicking the 'enter' button with a flourish. Her heart fluttered for a moment when she realized that she had most likely just contributed to someone else's salvation.

"Most likely not," Sherlock admitted dryly.

"Done," Charlotte informed him. She peered at the tiny clock in the corner of her screen. "And I'm off the clock as of one minute ago. Can you relay to Dr. Watson that I finished the green folders?"

Sherlock grunted his consent.

"Great," Charlotte responded. She closed the laptop screen and stood, picking her up bag by its handles. "I'll see you both Thursday, then?"

"Very well," Sherlock responded.

Charlotte could sense what came next and she ended the call before Sherlock had the chance to. She pocketed her phone, collected the rest of her things, then made her way out of the flat, shutting the lights and the door.

"See you Thursday, Mrs. Hudson!" she called as she opened the front door.

"See you, dear!" Mrs. Hudson returned.

Charlotte tugged her coat tightly around herself as she was met with the brisk evening. She made sure the front door was closed behind her before stepping out onto the sidewalk.

She turned the corner a couple blocks away and nearly collided with Sherlock and Watson. "Oh!" she uttered in surprise, stopping abruptly. Her bag slumped off of her shoulder and she went to grab it before realizing that Sherlock already had it. "Thank you," she said, shrugging it back up onto her shoulder.

"On your way home?" Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"Yep," Charlotte answered. Then, her brow dipped in the middle. "I did just tell you that, didn't I?"

Watson smiled knowingly. "He calls it—"

"Selective listening," Sherlock interjected.

"Precisely," Watson said, shaking his head. "I call it just about the most annoying thing on the planet."

Charlotte chuckled. "I'm going to guess he didn't give you my message, either."

"I'm devastated I missed it," Sherlock said sarcastically.

Charlotte ignored him. "I just wanted you to know I finished with the green folders. I'll start right in on the red on Thursday."

"Finished?" Watson clarified. "You're serious? That's amazing."

Charlotte nodded, cracking the tiniest of smile. "It was just typing, Dr. Watson. You could probably train a monkey to do it."

"But so fast," Watson commended.

"It's amazing what I can do in the peace and quiet," Charlotte said with a bashful shrug.

Watson gave her a sincere look of appreciation. "Really, it's excellent. Thank you. I may actually be able to update my blog more regularly."

"I guess we hired the right person, hm?" Sherlock said as he glanced at John, more satisfied with himself than complimentary of Charlotte. "At this rate, we'll have no need for her by the end of next week."

"Sherlock…" John grumbled scoldingly.

"It's okay," Charlotte responded, shifting on her feet. "I kind of thought the same myself."

"I think you underestimate how many papers are in those stacks," John told her, with only the hint of a joke in his voice.

"Maybe," Charlotte admitted, smiling hopefully.

"What did you think of the case files?" Sherlock asked, staring at her steadily. "Be honest. I'll know if you're not."

Charlotte paused, recalling all that she had read. "I thought they were…intriguing," she admitted, unashamedly. "Gruesome, yes. Some of them. But the cases you take on, they're peculiar. Not ordinary criminology, if there is such a thing."

"There is," Sherlock let her know. "And your analysis is correct. I only take cases that interest me—cases that people with normal brain-functioning couldn't dream of cracking."

"He's stroking his ego now," John scoffed, shaking his head. "You'd better get moving before he really gets into it and you're here all night."

"She's not going anywhere," Sherlock announced, to the surprise of both Watson and Charlotte.

"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte asked, looking more amused than anything.

"Dr. Watson and I were just about to duck in for a bite to eat," Sherlock told her, pointing at the neon sign above their heads. "And you're dying to know about today's cases. You've been dying to know all day. I could hear it over the phone and I can see it now."

Watson looked between the two of them, as if he had fallen a step behind.

"What do you see?" Charlotte questioned, almost challengingly.

"I see that you're not usually the type to stop and chit-chat, especially when you're hungry and already anticipating at least forty-two minutes on the tube," Sherlock rattled off. "You haven't abandoned conversation, even when I've been blatantly rude—something you're not usually keen to put up with. And it's true what people say, your feet do generally point in the direction of the thing you're most interested in—in this case, your toes are pointing directly at Dr. Watson and myself."

Charlotte blinked a few times, combing over all the information he had just presented her with. Her brow furrowed. "How do you know where I live?" she asked, realizing he had pinpointed her commute time.

"I have my ways," Sherlock replied cryptically.

"You're bluffing," Charlotte challenged. "Lucky guess. Lots of places are forty-some minutes away."

"True," Sherlock sniffed. "But I also happen to know that, based on the direction from which you arrive to our flat, you alight at Baker Street Station. Baker Street serves four lines—if you count Circle and Hammersmith & City as one. You were on track to catch the 5:10 train before we stopped you, which meant you were destined for the Jubilee line, in the direction of Stratford. That's where it got a little tricky, considering the Jubilee intersects with seven different lines on its way to Stratford. However, after accounting for every possible stop, change, walking path, so on and so forth, I pinpointed which neighborhoods you could have been destined for. Then, by comparing your projected salary with the cost of living in said neighborhoods, I determined that you could only feasibly live in five. All five are at least a forty-two minute train away, but only one is exactly that. I took a calculated risk in specifying the number and, judging by your unnerved reaction, my risk paid off. It takes exactly forty-two minutes to get to Barking Station from Baker Street Station. I would even conjecture you live very close to the station, considering your footwear selection. Still think I'm bluffing?"

Charlotte stood unmoving and unspeaking. She wiggled her toes in her shoes, as if to remember which ones she was wearing. He was right—she only wore her flats that day because she knew it was a short walk from her home to Barking Station and a short walk from Baker Street Station to 221B.

Watson cleared his throat. "And that is why you never call his bluff," he said simply with an empathetic look.

"You did all that—all those calculations and deductions—on the spot? From the moment you bumped into me till now, that's all it took?" Charlotte demanded of Sherlock, stunned.

"Dear girl, I did them days ago," Sherlock replied. "How do you think I knew exactly where we could catch you on your way home?" He snorted and shook his head, staving off a smile as he turned and walked into the restaurant.

"That's insane," Charlotte breathed out, blinking.

"That's Sherlock," John assured her. "You'll get used to it." He politely held the door open for her.

Charlotte wore a dazed expression as she followed Sherlock inside. She sat down in the seat opposite him at the table he had selected. "If you planned this little run-in, then I hope you also planned to pay for my meal," she said. "Reparations for the trauma you just inflicted."

Sherlock chuckled, clearly amused with himself.

"It's the least we can do," John spoke up. "Considering we have you working eight-hour days for no pay."

Charlotte picked up her menu and tried to think of anything but Sherlock's deductions. She wished she could debate him on one detail, no matter how small, but he had gotten everything right. It thrilled her and unnerved her to know that someone could know everything about her with a few minor details and a glance.

"Are you…actually okay?" John asked from the seat catty-corner to hers, letting out a nervous laugh. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Charlotte forced out a chuckle. "I'm fine," she reassured him. "Just…thinking it all over, I guess."

"No one likes to be read like a book, Charlotte," Sherlock said. "Especially someone as private as yourself. It's okay to admit that."

"I want to fight you on it," Charlotte admitted. "I really do."

"I know you do, but that's the wonderful thing about being me," Sherlock show-boated. "I'm always right. No one can best me."

"Except Mycroft, you mean," John jabbed, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Mycroft surely could."

"My brother is a—"

"Certified genius? Yeah, I know," John responded.

"If he's so smart, why does he have me running around, solving his crimes?" Sherlock pressed, a nerve clearly struck.

"Actually, he has me running around solving his crimes," John corrected, looking peeved. "You can't be bothered."

"Sorry if I can't be bothered to neglect someone with a bomb strapped to their chest," Sherlock growled defensively.

"So, you're solving a case?" Charlotte asked John brightly, not wanting things to escalate. "All on your own."

Sherlock sneered. "All on his—"

Charlotte kicked him gently in the shin under the table, quickly wiping the smirk off his face. "I asked Dr. Watson," she insisted.

John looked somewhere between impressed and grateful, then cleared his throat. "Well, yes, I'm working on something right now," he explained. "An M16 employee turned up dead, and no one can seem to find the USB drive he had on him. Apparently it contains vital information from the government."

Charlotte took on a look of concern. "That doesn't sound good," she said. "Do you do this often? Go off on your own like this?"

"Not often, no," John admitted. "Actually, this is my maiden voyage."

"Who's taking the notes?" Charlotte asked curiously.

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Who's taking the notes, she says."

Watson gave Sherlock a deeply unamused look, then turned his attention back to Charlotte. "No notes," he informed her. "Sherlock—no matter how annoying—is the selling point for my blog. I can't do the deductions; therefore, I can't attract the readership."

"Still," Charlotte persisted, not looking placated by the answer. "I mean, what if something that comes up in this case is something you'll need to remember down the line?"

"Then I'll tell Sherlock and he'll remember," Watson answered.

"John, can't you see your intern wants to go out in the field?" Sherlock asked, stating what he saw as the obvious. He clucked his tongue at Charlotte. "One day on the job and you're already looking for a promotion."

"You said yourself that I'll be done typing by next week," Charlotte reminded him. "What will I do then?"

"Clean the flat?" Sherlock suggested.

Charlotte snorted. "Fat chance of that happening," she scoffed. "Considering what you keep around there, you would end up investigating my murder in the end."

Sherlock chuckled, despite himself. "We'll see how long it takes you to complete your transcriptions. I would have to watch you work in order to calculate the exact—"

"Are you saying maybe?" Charlotte queried in slight disbelief.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered evasively, bobbing his eyebrows.

"Really?" John asked, seeming to be just as surprised as Charlotte. "You'd let her come in the field with us?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, holding up a finger as he realized the conversation was running away from him. "Sometimes I need you analyzing, Watson, not scratching down notes. It might be helpful to have a scribe."

The waitress brought out their food and Charlotte immediately picked up her chopsticks, starving. When she put her head down to take a bite, Watson and Sherlock exchanged a silent, argumentative glance. Watson certainly didn't want to be responsible for any harm that befell Charlotte, and he was miffed that Sherlock hadn't even considered the thought. Sherlock stared back with the usual flippant air about him.

"I have to use the loo," John announced with an air of frustration, rising and leaving the table. He stalked away.

As John walked away, Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it quickly from his pocket and held it to his ear. "Hello?" he spoke.

Charlotte couldn't hear what was being said on the phone, but she could tell it wasn't good by the ever-deepening frown on Sherlock's face. When he eventually hung up, she gave him a concerned look. "The postings on the website, they're for the same person, aren't they?" she asked.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed in the affirmative.

"It's like a game to this person, isn't it? The taunting phone calls and the bomb vest, all one after the other," Charlotte ventured.

"Mm," Sherlock replied again, nodding this time.

"Do you know who it is?" Charlotte asked.

"Only a hunch," Sherlock admitted. He tented his fingers and pressed them against his lips, looking deep in thought.

Charlotte reassumed her silence, not wanting to interrupt. She continued to eat her dinner.

"Who's that?" Sherlock questioned suddenly.

Charlotte looked up to see he was pointing at the TV mounted on the wall of the restaurant. "Connie Prince," she answered. "She does those make-over shows."

"Apparently, she's dead," Sherlock said, just as the banner appeared at the bottom of the news coverage.

"That's the next one, then," Charlotte stated, not having to guess.

"Indeed," Sherlock responded.

"Who was on the phone?" Charlotte asked hesitantly.

"A woman," Sherlock answered. "Elderly. Blind."

"Attached to a bomb?" Charlotte asked.

"Mm," Sherlock replied.

Charlotte nudged her plate away, feeling her appetite fade.

Sherlock noticed John returning from the bathroom. "Hate to be rude, Charlotte, but I think Dr. Watson and I must be going now," he told her, rising.

"What's going on?" John asked as he returned to the table.

"You're taking your food to go. We have another one," Sherlock explained.

Charlotte stood. "And I should be catching the next train," she decided, feeling the need to get home to her brother.

"We'll cover you," John said, gesturing at her almost empty plate. He flashed her a smile. "See you Thursday. That is, unless we've scared you off completely."

Charlotte shook her head and cracked a smile. "Not a chance," she told him. "See you Thursday." She pulled her bag higher onto her shoulder and walked out into the darkening night.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welp, looks like it's a thing now. Can't stop writing! Let me know what you think.**

 **ORGANIZATIONAL NOTE: I've decided to organize my writing more or less by episode. I'll add to episodes until the plot is done with or I exceed the word count. If that makes it too hard to keep up with and read, let me know in a comment and I'll change it!**


	3. A Scandal in Belgravia: Part I

**A Note to Readers:** **Make sure you have read all of The Great Game before beginning A Scandal in Belgravia! I may have added to it since the last time you read.**

It seemed that Charlotte's first day on the job was indicative of how things would be at Baker Street from then on. Following "The Great Game"—as Dr. Watson had titled it—the blog took off, plunging Sherlock's work into the public eye like never before. The phone rang off the hook, potential clients queued around the block, and the media seemed to have set up a permanent camp outside of 221B.

Now eight weeks into her internship, Charlotte had become accustomed to the frenetic nature of her workplace. She found herself looking forward to the sixteen hours per week that she would get to be on the sidelines of whichever case Sherlock and John happened to be working on, listening intently as she typed away in the corner.

Sherlock had never followed up after alluding that they would take her into the field with them—she suspected Dr. Watson had had some say in that. However, the detective had also been incorrect in his estimation of her workload. It had taken her nearly four weeks to make sense of the red folder and accompanying paper stacks. By the time she had organized them all by case, sorted the pages chronologically, and typed them out, there was already a backlog of notes from more recent weeks.

During her previous Tuesday shift, she had nearly gotten caught up to date on all of the notes. That's why, on Thursday, she walked toward 221B Baker Street with a preemptive feeling of triumph, knowing she would certainly complete her task that day. She had a bounce in her step as she ducked into the bakery around the corner to buy a box of pastries. During her third week on the job, she had taken it upon herself to provide sustenance on Thursday mornings. Though John and Sherlock seldom accepted the odd scone or croissant, she found that many of the potential clients appreciated the gesture, grateful for a small kindness when many of them were facing horrific circumstances.

As she walked up Baker Street, she checked her watch, noting that the stop at the bakery had cost her a few minutes. She knew John and Sherlock would already be sitting down with their first client. She held the box of pastries more closely to her chest and put her head down, shouldering past the reporters, as she had become accustomed to doing in past weeks.

"Charlotte!" they called, trying to get her to look up. But she had grown accustomed to their tricks.

Then came the questions. The ones she didn't mind so much were the ones about Sherlock's cases. Many of the reporters were curious what he would be working on next. The other questions she absolutely abhorred, most of them stemming from a single photograph taken a number of weeks before.

* * *

That particular day three weeks in the past, her brother had phoned her toward the end of her workday to warn her that the internet was out in their flat, knowing she had a big research paper due the following day. She had become exasperated, realizing she would have to hole up in the university library all night. When John offered to let her stay on and work in their flat, she said yes without hesitation. She worked until late finishing the paper and, upon completion, decided to reward herself with a quick rest on the sofa before catching the train back to Barking. When she awoke to the sound of her alarm the following morning, she left in a terrible hurry, disoriented and worried about being late to class. During her hasty departure, some low-life with a camera phone had captured her leaving 221B in yesterday's clothes. The rumors caught like wildfire.

"Charlotte, what's the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Are you at the center of a love triangle?"

"Is it true that Dr. Watson hired you for more than typing?"

Charlotte had gotten very good at ignoring the reporters, but she hadn't always reacted so calmly to their badgering. At first, she had been irate. She was serious about her job, as were Sherlock and Dr. Watson. To suggest they had hired her on as some sort of prostitute was as ludicrous as it was offensive.

Matters were only made worse when students in her classes began asking questions, or giving her strange looks when they passed her on campus. It seemed the picture had circulated, and even people who hadn't been aware of Sherlock Holmes before were roped in with the idea of a sex scandal.

She had taken to keeping her head down. She knew the truth, as did anyone with an opinion that mattered to her. And with only a few weeks left in her final term, she was focused on matters much more important than gossip.

* * *

When she finally made it through the barrage of questions, cameras, and bodies, she opened the door to 221B with a flourish and closed it immediately behind her, dulling the roar coming from outside.

"Dreadful, aren't they?" Mrs. Hudson sniffed disapprovingly, meeting Charlotte at the bottom of the stairs.

"Truly," Charlotte responded, rolling her eyes. "Don't they have anything better to do?"

"Unfortunately not," Mrs. Hudson replied. "And it's just awful what they're saying about you in the papers, dear. I hope you don't read them."

"I don't, as a matter of fact," Charlotte said, with a snort. "But I'm sure I'm Mrs. Holmes by now and secretly carrying Dr. Watson's baby."

Mrs. Hudson let out a peal of laughter. "Oh, you're bad," she scolded, still tittering. When her laughter had subsided, she said, "By the way, when you've put your things down upstairs and checked in with the boys, come down to the kitchen. We'll have a cuppa."

"Will do, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte told the landlady, slightly confused. She had never asked her down for a cup of tea first thing before.

"And bring me a danish, would you?" Mrs. Hudson requested. Without waiting for an answer, she bustled back into the kitchen.

Charlotte climbed the stairs and opened the door to the flat, stepping inside and closing it behind her. John and Sherlock had indeed begun their first consultation of the day. The man sitting in the chair turned to look at her as she came in.

"Sorry," Charlotte whispered. "Don't mind me." She stepped lightly across the room to her desk.

"Good morning, Charlotte," John greeted, smiling pleasantly.

"Good morning, John," Charlotte returned. The transition to using her boss' first name had been rather seamless. It seemed the more acquainted they got with each other, the easier it was to lose the title. He was simply John to her now.

"Have you brought pastries?" Sherlock wondered.

"Every Thursday, Mr. Holmes—er, Sherlock. Sorry," she stammered. Sherlock had outright requested that she call him by his first name two weeks prior, without explanation. It was as if he had eventually noticed that she was no longer calling John 'Dr. Watson,' and felt inclined to drop the formalities as well.

"It's no bother," Sherlock replied. "It will take time, no doubt."

"I'm Charlie," the client introduced himself, swiveling in his chair to extend his hand to Charlotte. "Charlie Anderson."

"Charlotte," she replied, shaking his hand. "Pleased to meet you." She smiled kindly and couldn't help but notice the blue of his eyes.

"Charlotte is our intern," John informed Charlie.

"Yeah, I've read about you in the papers," Charlie responded, releasing Charlotte's hand but never taking his eyes off her.

"Fantastic," Charlotte said, the sarcasm evident in her voice. She blushed slightly.

"I don't believe any of that rubbish," Charlie assured her, snorting. "The papers do no one justice. Especially you, it seems." He smiled, with the twinkle of flirtation in his eye.

Charlotte's blush deepened and she suddenly became very aware that she was standing in front of London's most perceptive man and her boss. She quickly cleared her throat and opened the box of pastries. "Can I offer you anything before I go downstairs?" she asked Charlie.

"Sure, why not?" Charlie replied, carefully picking out one of the assortment.

"Mrs. Hudson's asked me to come down for tea," Charlotte told Sherlock and John while their client was distracted. "I'm sure it won't take long."

"Very well," Sherlock grunted. He sat up straighter in his seat and watched Charlie carefully, observing him while his guard was down.

"I'll actually take a scone this morning, Charlotte," John told her. She stepped over to let him choose.

"And you, Sherlock?" she asked. "Anything?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock declined.

"All right. I'll be back," Charlotte said. She turned and walked out of the room and back down the stairs, taking the box with her.

* * *

Charlie watched her go and then turned back to Sherlock and John with a starstruck expression. "Wow," he breathed out. "I mean…wow."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat softly.

"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock mused.

"I mean, of course neither of you can say anything," Charlie snorted. "Would be inappropriate, wouldn't it? It's gotta be difficult, though, in such close quarters all day. I wouldn't be able to help myself." He bobbed his eyebrows and shook his head.

Sherlock let out a burdened sigh. "Do you have a case for us or not, Mr. Anderson?"

* * *

Downstairs, Charlotte was seated across the kitchen table from Mrs. Hudson. "What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Mrs. Hudson?" she asked curiously.

Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea. "John told me you had asked for some days off for your graduation and it got me thinking," she began. "I'd like to have a dinner one night to celebrate your accomplishment. It doesn't have to be a big do. Just you, me, John, Sherlock, and you can invite your brother, if you'd like. I can cook just about anything, all you have to do is tell me your favorite." She smiled eagerly over the rim of her teacup.

Charlotte was at a complete loss. When Mrs. Hudson had invited her down for a cuppa, she had not expected this to be the content of the conversation. "Mrs. Hudson, I…" She put down her coffee cup with shaking hands. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, you don't have to know straightaway," Mrs. Hudson reassured her, seeing how flustered she had become. "Give it some thought and you can tell me when you've come up with it. Like I said, I can cook just about—"

"Thank you," Charlotte blurted. "Really. Thank you." She felt the pinpricks of tears, and worked desperately to keep them at bay.

She hadn't even thought to do anything to celebrate her graduation. Of course, she would go out to the pubs with some of her classmates, but that was about it. When you didn't have any family or money, parties were out of the question.

"You can't imagine how much this means to me," she expressed genuinely. She had successfully swallowed back any outpouring of emotion, but something about the way Mrs. Hudson looked at her told her she had sensed it.

"It's my pleasure, dear," Mrs. Hudson responded. "You've worked so hard, it would be a pity to see it go by unnoticed." She smiled kindly.

The two of them finished up their tea and pastries, discussing potential dates and times for the dinner. When Charlotte rose to return upstairs, she felt the strongest urge to hug Mrs. Hudson, but thought better of it.

When she stepped out into the hallway, she nearly collided with Charlie as he came down the stairs.

"Excuse me," Charlotte said, moving to step around him.

"Do you mind waiting up for a moment?" Charlie asked.

"Sure," Charlotte granted. "What's up?"

Charlie smiled. "I was actually hoping to run into you," he confessed. "I kept talking up there, in the hope that you would come back before I was inevitably shoved out." He laughed self-consciously.

"They didn't take your case?" Charlotte grimaced.

"Unfortunately, no," Charlie replied. "But that's the way it goes, I suppose."

"Why were you hoping to run into me?" Charlotte questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"I wanted to give you my number," Charlie told her. He took a pen and a piece of paper from his bag and scrawled down the digits before handing her the paper. "If it's not too forward to say, I'm quite taken with you."

Charlotte smiled and blushed once again. "Well, thank you," she responded.

"Give me a call sometime," Charlie invited. "I'd love to take you out."

"Maybe I will," Charlotte flirted, taking a step around him and up the stairs.

"See you soon, Charlotte," Charlie called softly after her, before turning and making his way back out through the front door.

* * *

As soon as Charlotte reentered the sitting room, both Sherlock and John went silent. The intern snorted. "Very suspect, you two," she joked. She walked over to her desk and took a seat, hearing the paper in her back pocket crinkle.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed, shooting to a standing position and snapping his fingers. "I was correct."

Charlotte stiffened and kept her eyes fixed on the laptop. "Correct about what, may I ask?"

"Settle a bet for me, would you Charlotte?" Sherlock queried. "Did he or did he not give you his phone number?"

Charlotte turned around to give Sherlock a look. "Sherlock Holmes, my personal life is none of your business."

"I'll split my winnings with you," Sherlock promised, raising his eyebrows in an appeal.

With an exasperated sigh, Charlotte ceded. "Yes, he did," she stated plainly. "Now, what's my reward?"

"Me being right," Sherlock replied. He turned to his partner. "Honestly, John, I don't know why you even try."

John looked at Charlotte, shocked. "He couldn't have," he claimed.

"I'll pretend I'm not offended by that remark," Charlotte deadpanned. She took the paper out of her back pocket and showed him as proof.

"That rat," John scoffed.

"I'm clearly missing something," Charlotte stated, raising her eyebrows in question.

"You're missing the entire ten minutes he was in here weeping over his missing girlfriend," Sherlock informed her.

"Oh, ick," Charlotte responded, making a face. She was suddenly looking at the piece of paper in her hand as if it were used bath tissue. In an instant, she had crumpled it up and hurled it toward the bin.

"Do you think he did away with her?" John inquired, curious. "Based off your impression."

"Can't say," Charlotte admitted. "But I certainly wouldn't be handing out my number if my girlfriend were missing."

"Clever girl," Sherlock commended.

"Thank you," Charlotte replied, turning back around to face the laptop screen. She typed the password in and waited for John's desktop to load.

"You're still intrigued," Sherlock observed, coming off as surprised.

"Get out of my head, Sherlock," Charlotte scolded.

"Your head aside, it's all about body language," Sherlock continued. "You're turning away from us, no longer wanting to converse on the subject in fear that we might find you out. Too late."

"You can't be serious," John said. "Charlotte?"

Charlotte wheeled around with an exasperated sound. "I'm clever, not blind," she defended. "I mean, did you get a good look at him?"

Sherlock was chuckling, rather pleased with himself. John, meanwhile, wore a deeply disapproving look.

"Leave her be, John," Sherlock coaxed, clearly in a good mood now. "It's not as if you're impervious to physical attraction. You drool at the heels of every woman in the street."

"You think this is very funny, do you?" Charlotte asked of Sherlock sassily. "Just wait until the day you fancy someone. We're never going to let you hear the end of it."

"No, we are not," John agreed, cracking a teasing smile.

"I have no time for attractions," Sherlock stated, as if above them somehow. "Emotions only—"

"—slow you down," John and Charlotte drawled in unison.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the two of them, his sunny mood evaporated. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted. "Let the next one up!"

Charlotte and John exchanged a grin, sharing in their triumph.

* * *

The following Tuesday, Charlotte arrived at 221B Baker Street, put her head down and shouldered through the crowd of reporters as usual. However, as she did so, she noticed the questions shouted at her had changed.

"Charlotte, have you called Charlie Anderson?"

"What does Sherlock Holmes think of your relationship with Mr. Anderson?"

"Will this mean the termination of your internship?"

Charlotte trudged on, not looking up until she was safely inside the flat. Mrs. Hudson was there to greet her, as usual.

"Good God, Mrs. Hudson, what are they on about now?" she demanded with a harrowed look.

Mrs. Hudson looked worried. "You mean you haven't seen the papers? Oh, dear…" She bustled into her kitchen to snatch up the paper, bringing it back to Charlotte.

The redhead's eyes pored over the article, her brow furrowing further and further with each line she read. "He was a reporter," she stated, flabbergasted.

"Undercover," Mrs. Hudson confirmed, with a shake of her head and a disapproving look. "Ruddy awful trick he pulled."

Charlotte looked back down at the paper, continuing to read. She had to read the final passage aloud, or else risk bursting into flame:

"While his intern appears impartial, the detective himself was clearly smitten. Blinded by jealousy at my very mention of her beauty, Mr. Holmes could not even deduce that I was from the media. He's either not the master of deduction he claims to be, or he has an achilles heel by the name of Charlotte Green."

She threw the paper down with a near growl. "This is absolute rubbish!" she exclaimed.

"Like I said, an awful trick," Mrs. Hudson agreed, looking vengeful. "I didn't think I had to worry about who I let into the house, you know? I figured that Sherlock would…" She politely trailed off, looking apologetic once she realized what she was saying.

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte responded. "I'm sure he just thought he was another boring sod off the street. He'll know to look out for it in the future."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and offered a smile. "I think he's a bit upset. Been in bed all morning" she informed Charlotte. "You know how he hates to lose."

"I do," Charlotte admitted with a knowing look. "Hopefully we'll get a case. Really morbid one. That always seems to cheer him up."

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing her up toward the stairs. "I'll be up with the tea and coffee in a moment."

"Oh, hang on a moment," Charlotte told her. She had almost forgotten why she had woken up excited that morning. She opened her bag and took out an envelope. "It's a ticket for the graduation ceremony," she said, suddenly bashful as she handed it over. "I figured, you know, since you're nice enough to cook me dinner, I would extend the invitation. You don't have to go, of course. It's going to be boring. Pomp and circumstance, and all that. Don't feel obligated. Really." She grimaced slightly.

"You can count me in," Mrs. Hudson replied simply. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Great," Charlotte responded with a smile, relieved.

"How many tickets were you given?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously. "I know two someones who might feel very left out if they're not invited."

Charlotte guffawed. "I think not inviting them is a great service," she joked. "It saves them the time of coming up with an excuse. They'll probably be busy, anyway."

"Suit yourself," Mrs. Hudson said. "You can't say I didn't try."

"No I can't," Charlotte agreed. She blew out a breath. "Well, I had better get upstairs. They'll start thinking I'm slacking."

"Hurry on, dear," Mrs. Hudson encouraged, turning to walk back to her kitchen.

Charlotte mounted the stairs and opened the door to John and Sherlock's flat. She was used to walking into the middle of an argument, and easily went about her business. "Good morning," she said breezily as she walked past them and over to her desk. She set her things down and turned on the laptop, listening to the bickering over her shoulder.

"Watson, this is a six. We agreed I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven," Sherlock was saying.

"I was assuming that meant you wouldn't take a case unless it was a seven or above," John flung back. "Now, you're expecting me to carry you around on my laptop, like some—"

"Can I go?" Charlotte inserted.

Sherlock and John both turned and looked at her with a certain degree of surprise, as if noticing her presence for the first time.

"Beg pardon?" John requested.

"I mean, if you're taking the laptop, I really have no business being here," Charlotte reasoned. "And if it's a six, it can't be all that dangerous. I could be helpful, even."

John looked unsure, but Sherlock saw his argument won. "Excellent. Yes. Take Charlotte with you," he instructed.

"I'm great company," Charlotte said, giving John an ingratiating smile.

"Yes, fine," Watson ceded. "This once. Only this once."

"I won't push my luck," Charlotte promised, though she simultaneously felt that a door had opened wide for her.

"We had better get going then," John grumbled. "Let me grab my coat." He walked from the room.

"And what, may I ask, are you doing with your morning?" Charlotte wondered, appraising Sherlock with a hint of judgment.

"Resting," Sherlock answered, more bristly than usual.

Charlotte hummed in response and turned to begin packing up the laptop.

"He was saying degrading things," Sherlock said, out of the blue.

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, confused. "John, you mean?" she wondered.

"No," Sherlock said. "The bloke from the other day. The reporter."

"Ah," Charlotte responded, not quite knowing what else to say. She kept her eyes fixed on the laptop case, zipping it up.

"He didn't 'mention your beauty,' he talked about you as if you were a something to eat. It made me angry," Sherlock explained, sounding angered at the mere mention. "It distracted me from my deductions."

Charlotte felt the need to turn around and look at him directly. "Sherlock, you don't have to explain anything to me. He's just some idiot from the papers. He fooled us all."

"Yes, but you're you and I'm me," Sherlock responded sullenly. "I should have seen it. I could have prevented all this nonsense."

"You didn't lose, Sherlock. He cheated," Charlotte established. "How could you sit by calmly after he openly flirted with me, then proceeded to plead his girlfriend's case? Any friend would be concerned—upset, even."

"Are we friends?" Sherlock questioned, arching an eyebrow.

"Lack of a better term," Charlotte remedied. "All I'm saying is, he didn't play it fair. He showed me one side and you another."

"Indeed," Sherlock responded. It was apparent that, even with Charlotte's attempts at cheering him, Sherlock was still deeply perturbed.

"Ready to go?" John questioned, popping back into the sitting room.

"Er, yes," Charlotte answered, a bit taken off guard. "Just the laptop then?"

"And whatever you need," John told her. "Might be cold. Do you have a coat?"

Charlotte nodded, plucking her jacket off the back of the chair.

"Have a peaceful morning, Sherlock," John told his flatmate sarcastically, looking thorny. "We'll see you when we return."

"See you," Charlotte chirped, suddenly thrilled at the thought of going out on a real crime scene. She paused in the doorway as John plodded down the stairs. "Is it a waste to ask you not to get too in your head about this?" she asked, eyeing Sherlock.

"Entirely," Sherlock answered honestly, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

"Figured as much," Charlotte responded, one corner of her mouth slanting down slightly as she ducked out of the room.

She caught up to John just as he had hailed a taxi, thankful not to have to wait amongst the mob of reporters. John opened the car door for her and she climbed inside. As the taxi driver pulled away from the curb, she watched the reporters fade away behind her, feeling more at ease the further they got. Even after they were clear of them, she continued to stare out the window, letting out a sigh.

"Not the sound of someone who's excited to go on her first case," John teased.

Charlotte turned her head to look at him. "Believe me, I'm excited. It's just…"

"Sherlock," John guessed, sounding like he knew exactly what she meant.

"He's really distraught over this whole reporter thing, isn't he?" Charlotte said.

"Yeah, he is," John replied, nodding. "He's been a grouchy bastard ever since it hit the papers. You know how he hates to—"

"Lose, right," Charlotte cut him off. "But that's not all this is."

John nodded sagely. He was quiet for a few moments, contemplative. "If I knew what went on in Sherlock Holmes' head, I would be a billionaire," he led off. "But, if I had to guess, I'd say he feels like he let everyone down."

"Sod the reporters," Charlotte sniffed. "And since when does he care what the public thinks?"

"Not the public," John corrected. "I mean us—you, me, Mrs. Hudson. I think he feels that he endangered us in some way. You, especially."

Charlotte snorted. "That's ridiculous," she stated, shaking her head disbelievingly. "What was Charlie Anderson going to do to us? Stab you with a pen? Give Mrs. Hudson a paper cut? Quote me?"

John cracked a smile. "Be serious," he encouraged.

"I'm trying," Charlotte assured him, the corners of her mouth twitching up.

"Look at it this way," John tried again. "What if Charlie Anderson were a murderer instead of a reporter and Sherlock had missed it?'

Charlotte thought that over for a second and slowly began to nod. "Okay, I guess I can see it that way. But he wouldn't have missed it."

"He has before," John told her.

"Oh?" Charlotte queried.

"You can't tell him I told you this—it would do damage to his ego beyond repair," John said. "But he met Moriarty at the morgue one day, face to face, before we knew he existed. He was posing as Molly's boyfriend. Sherlock had no idea."

"Wow," Charlotte commented. "This Moriarty must be good."

"Apparently, about as good as Charlie Anderson," Watson said with disdain. "What a piece of work he is."

Charlotte paused, thinking over what Sherlock had said. "Was he saying lewd things about me?" she asked.

"More like implying," John replied. "Did Sherlock tell you that?"

Charlotte nodded. "Said it made him angry," she elaborated.

"It certainly made me uncomfortable," John admitted. "He was so open about it, like he enjoyed saying it right to our faces. Made my blood boil a bit."

"Then why only mention Sherlock in the article?" Charlotte wondered.

"Because I'm not the famous sleuth," John joked, chortling. "I'm only useful when they want to put you in the middle of a love triangle."

"Guess you're right," Charlotte replied, rolling her eyes. "I've about had it with the media, to tell you the truth."

"Comes with the territory now," John said, sounding most displeased. "I wanted people to know about Sherlock's work, not obsess over his personal life. This is my fault more than anyone's, if you think about it."

"But without your blog, I wouldn't have an internship would I?" Charlotte mused. "Things happen for a reason, Dr. Watson."

"I suppose they do," John replied pleasantly, smiling over at her. "You've become an excellent addition at Baker Street."

Charlotte felt her face heat up slightly, taken off guard by the compliment. "Thank you," she uttered, turning her face to the window. She picked at a loose thread on her blouse. "You know…I was thinking I might increase my hours over the summer. I won't have classes, and I imagine I'll become quite bored."

"Bored without classes?" John questioned, his tone laden with teasing.

Charlotte shot him a look, but then cracked a smile. "What do you think? Could you use me three days per week? I know the notes need very little maintenance nowadays, but I was thinking of updating the website."

"Really?" John asked. "What about it needs updating?"

"Everything," Charlotte responded, snorting. "You need a new color scheme throughout, better organization of your posts, new headshots for the bio pages—"

"Can you do five days per week?" John interjected, chuckling.

"Don't tempt me," Charlotte replied, bobbing her eyebrows.

"I'm serious if you are," Watson told her plainly. "Free labor 40 hours per week? Fine by me."

Charlotte grinned broadly. In the back of her mind nagged her common sense, knowing she should be working to save up for her graduate studies. However, the prospect of spending her summer at Baker Street was too tempting. She foresaw more opportunities to get out into the field.

"You know, I really am sorry we can't pay you for your time, Charlotte," John told her apologetically, as if reading her mind. "Minimum wage for your work ethic would be a farce. No salary is practically an insult. And I know inheritance doesn't last forever."

Charlotte gave him a reassuring look. "I've budgeted," she told him. "I've got a year's rent, food, and tuition for my brother's undergraduate studies taken care of. As long as I can find a large enough scholarship for my graduate studies, I should make it out all right. And by the time I'm done there, I'll be the most in-demand criminal psychologist there is, and I'll want for nothing." She grinned. "Realistic, right?"

John looked pleasantly surprised. "You hadn't told us you were pursuing criminal psychology," he said.

"Haven't I?" Charlotte wondered, cocking an eyebrow.

"No, I would have remembered," John replied. "I thought we mightn't see much of you after you graduated, to tell you the truth."

"You're not getting rid of me that quickly," Charlotte joked. "Do you know how jealous my classmates will be that I'm apprenticing under Sherlock Holmes?"

"Apprenticing," John guffawed. "If that's what you call it."

"That's what I'll call it when they ask," Charlotte assured him with a sly smile.

"Oh, by the way," John said, looking as if he had just remembered something. "Did Mrs. Hudson get onto you about the graduation dinner?"

"Yes," Charlotte answered. She looked at him confusedly. "You knew about that? I didn't think she'd roped you in yet. I don't graduate for another three weeks."

"Roped me in?" John questioned. "The dinner was my idea."

"Yours?" Charlotte responded, astounded. "You're full of it now."

John laughed. "I am not," he defended. "Look, I…" He fidgeted in his seat and grew quiet. "I know what it's like not to have family around for big events—birthdays, holidays, graduations."

"Oh, so this is a pity party?" Charlotte ascertained, raising her eyebrows suspiciously.

"No, it's not," John argued gently. "I'm just saying that you should be celebrated, even in some small way. You've clearly worked very hard to get where you've gotten and I doubt you've ever stopped to thank yourself for that."

Charlotte sat in stunned silence, not thinking John capable of such candor with her. A few beats passed before she cleared her throat softly. "Will you come to the ceremony?" she asked. "There's plenty of tickets to go around." She glanced over at him and smiled shyly.

"Course I will," John replied. "I'd be honored, Charlotte."

"Great, because Mrs. Hudson's going to need a date," Charlotte stated.

John let out an offended noise. "You asked Mrs. Hudson before you asked me?" he demanded. "After all that bleeding heart rubbish, the land lady got an invite before I did? If you tell me Sherlock has one—"

Charlotte was laughing. "He doesn't. He doesn't, I swear," she reassured him.

John snorted, an amused look on his face as he shook his head.

The taxi had come to a stop. Charlotte looked out the window onto the open field beside the road. It would have been majestic, had it not been for the officers swarming the scene.

"This looks like the place," John confirmed with the driver. "Thanks, mate." He opened his door and ducked out of the car.

Charlotte got out as well, slinging the strap of the laptop bag across her chest as she followed after John eagerly toward the scene.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Hi, readers! Hope you enjoyed this installment. I've decided to split A Scandal in Belgravia into two (possibly three) parts, since it's such a loaded episode. Make sure to read on to Part II! Thanks for reading. xx**


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia: Part II

**A NOTE TO READERS: Make sure you've read all of A Scandal in Belgravia Part I before starting Part II!**

John and Charlotte hadn't been on the scene long—just long enough to give Sherlock a cursory look via webcam—before the connection was lost.

"Damn," Watson swore. "I guess that's what you get for doing it improperly." He closed the screen with a sigh.

"Dr. Watson, Ms. Green," one of the guards hailed to them, waving them over. He appeared to be on the phone.

"What is it?" Charlotte asked, once they had gotten closer.

"It's for you," the guard said.

"Well, give it here, then," John demanded, putting his hand out.

"No, sir, not the phone. The helicopter," the guard corrected.

That was when Charlotte heard the sound of the propellor blades cutting through the air. She looked overhead to see a helicopter making its way to land beside the river. "That's for us?" she questioned incredulously.

"You've been called back to London," the guard shared with them. "You're needed at once."

* * *

As it turned out, travel by helicopter wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Charlotte still felt woozy as she and John were led down a long, elegant hallway. She was so nauseous, she couldn't even appreciate the fact that they were in Buckingham Palace.

When their attendant left them in a grand sitting room, where Sherlock awaited them on the couch, wrapped in a sheet. They made their way over in complete silence. Charlotte plopped down beside Sherlock, John bookended them on the right. After taking her seat, Charlotte immediately put her head between her knees.

"You look green, Green," Sherlock observed measuredly.

"Bloody helicopters," Charlotte croaked.

A few beats of silence passed.

"Are you wearing pants?" John questioned.

"Nope," Sherlock answered simply.

The three of them snickered.

"Why are we here, Sherlock?" John questioned quietly, as if in secret.

"I have no idea," Sherlock responded, shaking his head.

"I would venture a guess and say Mycroft has something to do with it," Charlotte said, her voice muffled from her position.

"You think?" John asked, looking unsure.

"Come on," Charlotte responded. "Knows our exact location. Helicopters us out. Sherlock behaving defiantly. All signs point."

"I would say I'm proud, but I don't want you to get excited and vomit all over the royal carpet," Sherlock chided.

Charlotte laughed, having to cover her mouth to keep the sound in.

"But why Buckingham Palace?" John questioned. "Do you think we're here to see the Queen?"

At that moment, Mycroft came strolling around the corner.

"Apparently so," Sherlock quipped, sending the three of them into giggles again.

Mycroft let out an aggrieved sigh. "For once, would it kill the two of you to behave like grownups?" When he walked around to stand in front of them, he seemed surprised. "I didn't see you there, Charlotte. My apologies."

"S'okay," Charlotte assured him.

"I take it the helicopter did not agree with you?" Mycroft mused.

"Not at all," Charlotte replied miserably.

"I'll have someone fetch you some water," Mycroft offered. "Meanwhile…" He picked up a neat stack of clothes that had been placed on the coffee table. "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." He jerked them in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock snorted. "What for?"

"For your client," Mycroft insisted.

"And my client is…?"

"To remain anonymous," said a male voice.

Charlotte didn't recognize the speaker, but she felt John and Sherlock stand on either side of her, ready to greet whoever it was. She struggled to her feet, the room spinning in front of her eyes. She swayed into Sherlock and then against John, whose arms jutted out to steady her. "Easy does it, Charlotte," he coaxed, chortling awkwardly through his teeth.

"You'll have to excuse Ms. Green, Harry," Mycroft told the man. "First time on a helicopter."

"No apologies necessary," Harry assured him. "Although, I wasn't aware we would be joined by a third. Is her presence absolutely necess—"

"Yes," Sherlock interjected. "Completely necessary. She's our third opinion."

Charlotte lifted her head to look at Harry, finally able to see straight. He didn't look all that convinced. She offered a beleaguered smile.

"Now, who is my client?" Sherlock demanded.

"I've already told you," Harry responded, "their identity must remain anonymous."

"I don't do anonymous clients," Sherlock asserted. "There's enough mystery on one side of a case. To have it on both is just too much. Good day."

He stepped around Charlotte and Watson, headed for the exit. Mycroft stepped forward and put a foot on the sheet trailing behind his little brother. The sheet unraveled, falling all the way to Sherlock's waist before he caught it.

Charlotte let out a small noise of surprise and clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling into it. John looked on in amusement beside her.

"Get off of my sheet!" Sherlock demanded indignantly.

"Or what?" Mycroft taunted.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock threatened.

"Boys, not here," Watson scolded.

"Who is my client?" Sherlock hissed.

"For God's sake, make a deduction," Charlotte invited. "Look around you, Sherlock. Take a wild guess, if you have to."

"It seems your 'third opinion' is a good one," Mycroft taunted Sherlock. "You are being requested by someone in the royal family. Now…" He stared menacingly at the back of his brother's head. "…put some clothes on!"

Ten minutes later, they were all seated on the sofa once again, Sherlock clothed and Charlotte considerably less sick. Mycroft and Harry sat opposite them.

"What do you know of this woman?" Mycroft asked, taking a photo from his briefcase and showing Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at the picture. "I don't know of her," he admitted, handing it back.

"Her name is Irene Adler," Mycroft told him. "Known professionally as The Woman."

"Ooh," Charlotte said, intrigued. "I bet you her profession is something clothing optional." She waggled her eyebrows.

Mycroft made a face at Charlotte's enthusiasm. "Indeed," he replied, his eyes sliding back to Sherlock. "People call what she does by many names, but Ms. Adler prefers the term 'dominatrix.'"

"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeated, almost under his breath.

"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex," Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. "Sex doesn't alarm me," he insisted.

"How would you know?" Mycroft asked, his tone condescending. A tense moment passed between the two brothers. Then, Mycroft reached back into his briefcase and pulled out a small stack of photos. "These are from her website," he informed Sherlock, handing them over.

Sherlock examined the photos, one after the other. Charlotte glanced curiously over his shoulder. "Wow," she remarked, her eyebrows raised.

"Any deductions to make, Charlotte?" Mycroft questioned, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

The pictures were tasteful, while provocative. The woman featured in them was beautiful, there was no doubt. "I just mean I can see why people would pay to be punished by her."

"Be serious," Mycroft requested, looking like he had smelled something awful.

"I am being serious," Charlotte insisted. "Irene Adler is clearly intelligent. I may not be into punishment myself, but I can see why people who are shell out hundreds—maybe thousands or millions—to have her do it to them. She markets herself incredibly well."

"Please," Harry scoffed. "She's a sex worker."

"And what sells better than sex?" Charlotte countered, looking at him challengingly. "She's found a niche where people pay her to have the upper hand. It's brilliant."

"You sound like a fan," Mycroft critiqued.

"Maybe I am," Charlotte tutted. "After all, she's got a government official, an aide to the royal family, London's premier web sleuth, and an up-and-coming crime blogger sitting in the same room. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Charlotte shrewdly, then switched his gaze immediately to Sherlock. "You've been awfully quiet," he practically accused.

"The intern's said everything I care to say," Sherlock replied languidly, a smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth. "I daresay she could have handled this trivial case on her own."

Harry looked greatly offended. "But you don't even know—!"

"Don't be dramatic, Harry," Sherlock scolded. "Clearly, she has photographic evidence of illicit activities with one of your clients. Sex scandals really are so boring." He stood abruptly. "My advice? Pay her quickly and in full. Good day, gentlemen."

John and Charlotte stood up at that point, realizing they were to make their way out. The three of them got as far as the entryway before Mycroft spoke again.

"She wants no money," he said.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks before swiveling around to face his elder brother. "Well, now. This is interesting," he stated, his curiosity clearly piqued.

* * *

Later that day, Sherlock, John, and Charlotte had a taxi drop them in an alley about a block from Irene Adler's residence. Charlotte remained silent almost the entire way from Baker Street, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself in the chance that her presence was an oversight. After watching Sherlock try on different costumes for the visit, she also suspected that he needed her to pull off a rouse that she had yet to be filled in on. But, secretly, she hoped her inclusion had something to do with the initiative she had taken at Buckingham Palace.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asked, looking around him at the alley's brick walls.

"We're setting a scene," Sherlock informed him. He stepped closer to him. "Now, punch me in the face."

"Do what now?" John questioned, looking reluctant. "No, Sherlock. No. I'm not doing that."

Charlotte let out soft, exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. She turned and began to walk down the alley in the direction of Irene Adler's home.

"Charlotte," John inquired after her. "Charlotte, where are you going?"

"To ring the doorbell," Charlotte replied over her shoulder.

"Fine. Go," Sherlock told her, waving her away with one hand and sounding annoyed at the diversion from his scheme. "We'll catch up."

"We'll catch up? That's all you're going to—?" John was cut off as Sherlock socked him across the face.

Charlotte cringed slightly as she walked off, hearing the impact. She arrived at the address in no time, walking up the cement steps and knocking the door.

"May I help you?" a woman's voice asked over the intercom. Charlotte guessed it was probably a housemaid.

"I'm here to see Ms. Adler," Charlotte stated.

"What is your business?" the maid asked.

"I'd like a consultation," Charlotte explained.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then the sound of a knob turning. The door opened before her, revealing a woman with strawberry blond hair. "Right this way," she beckoned, waving Charlotte into the house.

"Beautiful home," Charlotte commented, looking around at the elegant decor. The maid led her down a long hallway and into a lavish sitting room.

"Please, take a seat," the maid instructed. Charlotte did as she was told and sat on the sofa.

The maid took a seat on an armchair across from her. "Ms. Adler prefers that I screen her clients before—"

"That won't be necessary, Kate," a silky voice spoke from the doorway. Irene Adler glided into the room, wearing a sheer robe that did little to hide the fact that she wore nothing beneath it. "I happen to have a spare moment, and I'm more than capable of screening my own guests." She smiled a crimson smile at Charlotte.

"Blood," Charlotte observed, as if she were commenting on the weather.

"What was that, my dear?" Irene questioned.

"Your lipstick shade. I wear it, too," Charlotte informed her. "Similar complexions. Makes sense."

Ms. Adler's smile widened. Kate stood up obediently and her madam slid into the armchair in her place. "That will be all, Kate," Irene dismissed her, waving a hand.

Kate retreated obediently and Irene could turn her full attention to Charlotte, a positively devilish look on her face. "Does Sherlock Holmes know that he has a prodigy under his belt?" she asked, almost teasing.

Charlotte snorted. "Please," she disregarded the comment. "It doesn't take powers of deduction to recognize a lipstick shade."

"You don't fool me, Charlotte Green," Irene replied, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. "I've done my research and you're much more than observant. Top of your class, raved about by your professors, a shoe-in for an offer from the best forensic psychology program in London."

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder, aloof. "Maybe," she entertained. "But he wouldn't keep me at Baker Street if he felt in any way threatened."

"Fragile male ego," Irene clucked.

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "Makes it easier for women like you, I suppose."

"Women like us," Irene replied, leaving no room for protests. She cocked her head to the side ever so slightly, giving Charlotte an inquisitive look. "However did he let you come alone?"

"He was too preoccupied by his own plan to pay me much mind," Charlotte answered. "I've made it clear that I'm a fan of yours. Probably thought I wanted an autograph or something."

"Are you a fan?" Irene asked, looking flattered.

"Absolutely," Charlotte responded. "I want to learn from you."

"You want to learn the trade of dominatrix?" Irene clarified. Then, she chuckled. "No offense, love, but you don't look the part."

"I want to learn the trade, in a sense," Charlotte articulated. "You're a dominatrix, but a businesswoman first and foremost. I want to learn how you dominate outside of the bedroom."

"I should have known you didn't come to me for an ordinary consultation," Irene said in response, looking pleased.

The doorbell rang and Irene glanced off toward the hallway. "That will be them, then," she stated. She rose from her chair. "Time for your first lesson. Observe closely," she told Charlotte, bobbing her eyebrows and strolling out.

Irene's footsteps faded away and Charlotte was left in the sitting room. She listened in on Kate's conversation with Sherlock over the intercom. As she had suspected, he was pretending that he had gotten jumped—John had punched him, after all. She heard the door open and close and the voices grew closer until Sherlock was let into the room. Sherlock had a scuffed face and he wore a priest's collar.

"Sorry to interrupt, Miss," Kate excused herself to Charlotte. "But the father here seems to have had some trouble."

"May I sit?" Sherlock sniveled, gesturing to the spot beside Charlotte. She saw fake tears in his eyes.

Charlotte politely scooted over and took on a concerned expression. "What happened, father?" she asked, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry you've had to wait," Irene's voice floated into the room. Her high heels click-clacked over the floor as she approached. "I don't think Kate got your name."

"Yes, I'm—" Sherlock's voice caught in his throat as he turned to see that The Woman was utterly naked.

"Hard to remember an alias when you've had a shock, isn't it?" Irene asked, sauntering over to stand in front of Sherlock.

"Ms. Adler, I presume," Sherlock spoke, staring up at her.

"Mr. Holmes, it's a pleasure," Irene told him, reaching out and snatching the white collar off his neck. "There. Now we're both de-robed." She grinned seductively. "Look at those cheekbones," she mused. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Don't you think, Charlotte?"

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply when John came in with a bowl of water and a clean rag, looking deeply confused as he saw The Woman. "Er, um…I've missed something, haven't I?" he asked.

"Indeed, you have," Charlotte responded, nodding heartily.

Irene smirked and moved to take a seat in her armchair. "I hate to break it to you Dr. Watson, but your intern gave you away," she told him, crossing her legs at the knee and her arms over her chest.

"Did she?" Sherlock asked, catching Charlotte in the corner of his eye and looking displeased.

"You should know better than to send her in alone," Irene said. "She's too green, yet."

"Poor judgment on my part," Sherlock grunted his admission, clearing his throat. He was staring intently at The Woman, seeming confused.

"A complete oversight," Irene practically scolded. "There's pictures of her in almost all of the papers. I'm almost disappointed at your sloppiness, Mr. Holmes."

"Perhaps I thought you were smart enough not to believe the rumors," Sherlock replied haughtily.

"Oh, I don't believe them for a second," Irene countered. "You two clearly aren't sleeping together. It's plain to see you haven't slept with anyone," she taunted, staring at Sherlock like lioness at her prey.

"Can you put something on, please?" John interjected. "Anything. A…napkin?" He held up the white rag hopefully.

"Why?" Irene asked, flicking her eyes in John's direction. "Are you feeling exposed, Dr. Watson?" She stood to acquiesce his request, nonetheless.

"I don't think John knows where to look," Sherlock supposed, standing simultaneously to offer his coat. He looked away as she approached.

"Oh, I think he knows exactly where," Irene corrected, smiling as she slipped her arms into Sherlock's coat. "Even she does," she added, nodding in Charlotte's direction. "Not sure about you, though…" she mocked, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffened and paced away toward the fireplace as Irene settled down onto the couch, wrapping the coat more tightly around herself. "But we've got more pressing things to talk about, don't we?" she wondered. "So, tell me, how was it done?"

"How was what done?" Charlotte spoke up in confusion.

"Do catch up, dear," Irene replied. "The hiker with the bashed in head. How was it done?"

"We're not here to talk about that," Sherlock tried to steer the conversation away.

"No, you're here for the photos," Irene pointed out astutely. "But I like detective stories. So, go on, how was he murdered?"

"He wasn't murdered at all," Sherlock replied simply.

"How do you know that?" Irene inquired, giving Sherlock a disbelieving look.

"It's obvious, isn't it? I know it just as I know that the hiker was a sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel, and…the pictures are in this room." His eyes flicked to John. "John, guard the door. Make sure nobody comes in."

The doctor stood up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The Woman gazed up at Sherlock, slightly ruffled. The detective walked slowly back and forth in front of her. "Two men, alone in the country, no one else around for miles—"

"I'm sorry, I thought you were looking for the photos now," Irene interrupted.

"I'll find them," Sherlock assured her. "That will take but a moment. You're moderately clever and we have some time." He smiled at her. "Two men, alone in the country, no one around for miles. One man struggles to start his car. The hiker looks up into the sky, watching birds, perhaps. What's going to happen next?"

"The hiker's going to die," Irene stated.

"No, that's the result," Sherlock corrected. "What happens first?"

"I don't understand," Irene replied, lost.

"Charlotte?" Sherlock asked.

"The car's going to backfire," Charlotte answered easily. Irene looked infuriated.

"Precisely," Sherlock said, nodding curtly. "It's going to make a loud noise. Noises are important—they can tell you everything."

As the last words left his mouth, the smoke alarm began to blare. Charlotte stood abruptly, startled. Irene looked first toward the door, then swung her head around to look directly at the mirror above her mantle and, finally, her eyes flitted to rest on Sherlock, clearly worried he had seen. However, she caught the sleuth glancing at Charlotte instead. He quickly looked away as he saw The Woman watching him.

"Behind the mirror," Charlotte spoke assuredly.

"Ah, thank you, Charlotte," Sherlock replied, nodding and turning to the mirror

Irene turned to look at the redhead, realizing she had been watching her the entire time. Her eyes narrowed, a look that could have been hatred, betrayal, or a reluctant reverence.

Charlotte's lips twitched in a self-satisfied way. "You told me to observe closely," she reminded Irene.

"When a smoke detector goes off, a woman would look first to her child. If she's childless, she looks to a partner, as spouse, a pet, even. You, however, have none of those things," Sherlock narrated to Irene as he found a hidden button under the mirror and swung it back to reveal a safe with a pin pad beside it. "It's funny the way fire brings to light our priorities —the things we care to protect most." He scrutinized the numbers on the pin pad, trying to figure out the combination.

"Then, I suppose you wouldn't want me to share what I caught you looking at," Irene taunted.

Sherlock was notably silent for a split second before he spoke again. "You know, you really ought to wear gloves when you punch in your code," he told her. "Your fingers leave oil deposits. The largest deposit is always on the first key. Then, I can figure it out from there."

"Pity to waste all that time," Irene tutted. "After all, I already gave you the code."

Sherlock turned around, looking puzzled. He caught Charlotte's eye, but she had nothing.

"Think," Irene urged condescendingly.

Suddenly, the door opened and in walked a tall man with a gun, flanked by three other armed men. One had John at gunpoint, pushing him along in front of him. "Hands above your head!" the tall man ordered. "Now!"

Sherlock and Charlotte both did as they were told, and one of the men stalked over and took Charlotte roughly by the shoulder, yanking her over to stand next to John. Irene was being held on his other side.

"Ms. Adler, on the floor," the tall man barked. "You too, Ms. Green!"

"Would you like me on the floor, too?" Sherlock asked.

"No, Mr. Holmes. I'd like you to open that safe," the man told him gruffly.

"American," Sherlock deduced from his accent. "Interesting."

"The safe. Now," the man commanded.

"I don't know the code," Sherlock admitted. "She hasn't given it to me."

"We've been listening, Mr. Holmes," the man argued. "We heard her say she did."

"Well, she's clearly lying because I don't know it," Sherlock spat back.

"Mr. Archer," the man addressed one of his henchmen, "on the count of three, I'd like you to shoot Dr. Watson."

"I don't know it," Sherlock insisted. "I swear."

"On second thought, shoot the girl," the man instructed, holding Sherlock's eyes challengingly. He held up a finger. "One…"

Charlotte began to shake in fear, feeling the cold metal of the barrel pressed against the back of her head as she was forced to stare down at the ground.

"No, you can't," Sherlock said sternly, his voice rising slightly. "I don't know the code."

"Two…"

Charlotte closed her eyes tight, hoping it would be quick.

"Thr—"

"Wait! No! Stop!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I know it!"

The tall man put his hand up to stop his gunman. Charlotte exhaled shakily, still trembling as she looked up.

Sherlock faced the safe and wracked his brain. Suddenly, it came to him. His fingers flew over the keys, punching in 32-24-34. He heard it click as it unlocked and he was finally able to exhale.

"Open it," the tall man instructed. "Now."

Sherlock turned the handle on the safe and then paused. "Vatican cameos!" he shouted, before pulling it open.

Charlotte had been briefed on this code-phrase just earlier that day, on the way to the countryside with John. She felt dizzy with gratitude as she ducked, hearing a shot ring out in the room. She heard a thud and turned to realize the man who had held the gun to her head had been shot and lay dead on the floor behind her.

When she looked up, all of the Americans were out cold, and Sherlock, John, and Irene were brushing themselves off. She stood on shaking legs, feeling extremely unsteady.

"You were paying attention," Irene commended, bobbing her eyebrows at Sherlock. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be," Sherlock brushed her off.

"Once again, I feel like I'm missing something," Watson put in.

Sherlock turned as if to leave the room, but then seemed to notice Charlotte, standing still as a statue exactly where she had risen. "Charlotte?" he questioned as he approached her. His voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel—all their voices did. She felt an arm wrapped around her shoulders. "Charlotte, we must be quick. There'll be more of them staking out the block." He began to walk from the room, guiding her along with him.

Charlotte stumbled along beside him. She was aware enough to know she was in shock, but not stable enough to shake it.

"Are you all right?" John asked from her elbow.

Charlotte wanted to reply, but felt like her mouth was full of cotton.

"She's in shock," Sherlock established. "For God sakes, I thought you were a doctor."

She felt herself being lowered down to a seat on the steps outside the house.

"John, can you stay here with her? Call the police and get them over here at once," Sherlock instructed.

"What are you doing, then?" John asked.

"I have to deal with The Woman," Sherlock replied, sounding reluctant. He lowered his voice slightly. "Keep an eye on her. I don't think she'll need medical attention, but err on the side of caution, if need be."

"Right," John replied dutifully. He took a seat beside Charlotte and she leaned against him.

"I'll be out as soon as possible," Sherlock told them both, his footsteps retreating back into The Woman's lair.

"You're all right," John assured Charlotte, patting her hand comfortingly. He noticed that her skin was ice cold. "You're all right, Charlotte. I promise you."

Charlotte leaned more heavily into John, feeling groggy. As her eyes closed, she heard the sounds of sirens in the distance.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **This one was so much fun to write! I absolutely love Irene Adler, and it was awesome (and challenging) to portray her. Let me know what you think. Did I get it right? What do you think of her sit down with Charlotte? Thanks for reading, as always. xx**


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia: Part III

By the time the following Tuesday morning rolled around, the afternoon at Irene Adler's seemed like a distant dream. Sherlock was fully recovered from his drugging and sitting at the breakfast table with a newspaper held in front of him. The smells of food wafted out from the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson busied herself making breakfast.

John entered from the hallway, holding his phone to his ear with a concentrated look on his face. He took a seat at the table and set the phone facedown on the tablecloth. "Charlotte's not coming in today," he shared with the room. "Left me a voicemail early this morning." He picked up the teacup that sat waiting for him, bringing it to his lips and blowing to cool it.

"Drat," Mrs. Hudson huffed from the kitchen. "I've made all this coffee for nothing."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked pointedly, lowering his newspaper to look at John inquisitively.

"Says she's not feeling well," John answered, one corner of his mouth slouching down slightly.

"You think it's more than that," Sherlock observed.

"Well, she did have a gun held to her head the other day, Sherlock," Watson replied, as if stating the obvious. "It sent her into a serious state of shock. I don't think it's too far-fetched to think she's making an excuse not to come in today."

"Why on earth would she do that?" Sherlock asked, inclining an eyebrow.

Watson laughed dryly in disbelief, shaking his head. "I mean maybe we've scared her off, Sherlock," he said. "I knew bringing her out in the field was a bad idea."

"I do hope she's okay," Mrs. Hudson fretted, her brow knit in worry as she set two boiled eggs in front of John and Sherlock. "Must have been quite a fright."

"She wouldn't just quit," Sherlock argued, hanging onto John's last point.

John shrugged. "I hope not," he admitted. "Just don't be too surprised."

"I'm never surprised," Sherlock returned adamantly, shooting John a look.

"Suit yourself," John mumbled, lifting his spoon to crack his egg.

They sat quiet for a few beats.

"If she leaves, we'll never replace her," Sherlock claimed, bringing them out of silence.

John scratched at his forehead and sighed softly. "Sherlock, if she wants to leave, we can't stop her," he replied frankly. "If she makes that decision, I guess I can always put another add on—"

"Mrs. Hudson, we're going out," Sherlock proclaimed, standing from the table and marching toward his bedroom. "John, get your coat."

* * *

Charlotte had awoken that morning at her usual time—6:00am, sharp. At first she hadn't felt anything out of the ordinary, but when she remembered that it was Tuesday, a knot had formed in the pit of her stomach. She called John right then and there, canceling her shift at Baker Street. Feeling much lighter, she rose from bed and decided to cook her brother a proper breakfast before sending him off to work.

After he had gone, she realized she hadn't had a day alone at home in a long time. Deciding to throw schedule completely to the wind, she stayed in her pajamas and put on another pot of coffee. As it brewed, she busied herself with tidying the flat.

A bit of tidying turned into a rather thorough comb-through, and by the time she was done, her coffee had to be microwaved. Pouring herself a generous cup, she took a seat at one of the two rickety kitchen chairs. She glanced at the clock and saw it was nine. On a normal day, she would have been greeting Mrs. Hudson in the foyer. Standing from the table, she walked toward her bedroom, feeling the need to keep moving. Perhaps if she remained in motion, she wouldn't feel the void of her absence from Baker Street.

She lugged her backpack to the kitchen table and plopped back down in her chair. Seeing as she was two weeks out from her final exams, a bit of studying could hardly hurt. She took a sip of her coffee and pulled a book from her bag.

There was a knock at the door and her head swung in the direction of the sound. Charlotte and her brother rarely got visitors—unless it was Mrs. Smithfield from next door asking them to look after her daughter, June, while she ran to the shop. But Mrs. Smithfield would know that Charlotte and her brother were out of the flat on Tuesdays.

Charlotte's brow furrowed and she walked over to the door, glancing through the peephole. She took on a look of mild shock as she saw who was on the other side. She slid the deadbolt back and turned the knob, opening the door to her callers.

"Wow, you really did know where I live," Charlotte commented, her tone quietly incredulous as she stared at Sherlock and John on her doorstep.

"No and yes," Sherlock responded cryptically.

"You…you had to give me your address the other day when I called you a taxi," John shared with her. "Guess I committed it to memory." He shrugged a shoulder.

"Not to be rude, but…what are you two doing here?" Charlotte asked. The sight of them put her on edge as much as it made her happy. "Is everything all right? Is Mrs. Hudson well?"

"She's very well, Charlotte," Sherlock replied. "And, apparently, so are you." He raised his eyebrows and Charlotte looked sheepish under his gaze.

"Come in," Charlotte beckoned. "Please. The neighbors will be onto you in a second." She stepped aside and was grateful for her initiative that morning. Her flat was shabby, at best, but at least it was tidy.

John looked a bit embarrassed as he crept past her. "Sorry to interrupt your morning," he apologized. "I couldn't seem to talk sense into him."

"Quite all right," Charlotte replied, closing the door behind them. She turned and was almost struck by the sight of John and Sherlock in her home. They appeared out of place, Sherlock glancing around at everything, and John seeming unsure where to look. Charlotte also became acutely aware of the fact that she was in her pajamas. She cleared her throat softly. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" She walked toward the kitchen, motioning for them to follow.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," John accepted her offer.

Sherlock didn't move from his spot in the center of the living room, standing where Charlotte's brother's sofa bed folded out.

Charlotte ignored the sleuth's behavior and turned her attention to John. "Take a seat," she beckoned. "If you can possibly choose." She snorted, knowing that neither of the two chairs was a very appealing option.

John took a seat in one of them and it groaned in protest.

Charlotte was at the sink, filling the kettle with water. "I'm really not accustomed to having visitors," she informed him as she coaxed a flame onto the stove and set the kettle on top of it. "As you can see, I don't have much room to entertain."

"Kind of reminds me of my first flat," John admitted with a good-natured chuckle.

"Really?" Charlotte wondered, brightening ever so slightly.

"Really," John responded, nodding affirmatively.

"I guess I never really imagined you being…Well, you know," Charlotte admitted with a self-conscious shrug.

"No, what?" John asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Dirt poor," Charlotte stated baldly. She smiled weakly and went to the pantry, retrieving a tea bag. When she noticed her hands were shaking, she regretted the third cup of coffee she had consumed.

"Everyone's dirt poor by London standards," John mitigated. "I still have no idea how Sherlock and I afford to live at Baker Street."

"Mrs. Hudson's hospitality," Charlotte joked gently, smiling at the thought of the landlady. "And Sherlock's brainpower, I suppose."

"What about my brain power?" Sherlock asked, entering the room with an interested look.

"You've decided to join us?" Charlotte wondered, giving him a faux-surprised look.

Sherlock snorted softly and shook his head. "Pardon my bad manners, I was just—"

"Learning everything you could possibly need to know about me ever?" Charlotte interjected. "Is that why you came all the way to Barking, to get a look at my dodgy flat?"

"Someone's clearly defensive," Sherlock sniffed, bobbing his eyebrows. He took a seat in the vacant chair.

"Clearly, I wasn't expecting my employers to stop by after I'd called in sick," Charlotte countered.

"We just wanted to stop by to see if you were okay," John defended softly.

Charlotte was caught off guard and her head snapped in his direction. She blinked a few times, not knowing what to say at first. "Well…I mean…I—Of course I'm all right," she answered haltingly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Maybe because you had a gun held to your head last Thursday," Sherlock suggested bluntly. "That tends to take a toll on some people."

"Sherlock," John scolded, giving him a reproachful look.

Charlotte stared back at Sherlock as a few seconds ticked by. "I'm fine," she replied steadily.

"Charlotte, it's okay to be—"

Sherlock held up a hand to stop John's speech. He squinted his eyes and stepped forward, scrutinizing Charlotte. "You're not scared, you're embarrassed," he deduced.

The kettle began to whistle and Charlotte practically lunged for it, happy to have some of the heat taken off her. However, just as she suspected he would, Sherlock pressed on.

"You're not still scared, you're embarrassed that you ever were scared," he pointed out, looking delighted at Charlotte's reaction because it told him he was right. "You couldn't come in today because you didn't feel like you could face us."

"What?" John questioned, surprised at the turn of events. "That's ridiculous. Charlotte, is that true?"

Charlotte set the mug full of boiling water in front of John and dropped the teabag into it. She turned to the refrigerator to get the milk for John's tea, grateful to not have to look at them. "Of course it's true," she replied disdainfully, her cheeks on fire. "I practically had an episode." She wouldn't lift her eyes to look at either of them as she brought the milk out and set it on the table.

"Charlotte," John said, ready to reason with her. "A man held a gun to your head. One more second and he would have pulled the trigger. I'm surprised you didn't soil yourself, if I'm being quite frank."

Finally feeling confident enough, Charlotte looked up at Sherlock and then to John, and back again. "But neither of you went into shock," she pointed out. "You barely blinked. Irene Adler, too. You were all so calm under pressure and I-I just crumbled."

"And that's embarrassing for you?" John asked, incredulous.

"Yes," Charlotte admitted, as if it were obvious. "It was my first time in the field and I totally botched it."

"You did everything perfectly," Sherlock countered, causing both John and Charlotte to look at him in disbelief. He ignored their looks. "From the moment you left us in that alleyway, you did everything exactly as you should have."

"Hang on," John said, looking further addled. "You're telling me you knew what Charlotte would do?" he asked Sherlock. "Was that your plan all along?"

"Not all along, no," Sherlock admitted. "But as soon as Charlotte made the decision to go in alone, I saw it all play out. By tipping The Woman off to our involvement with her very presence, she gave her the idea that she had the upper hand. This lowered our target's guard significantly, and Charlotte's praise only stroked her ego further, leading her to _request_ that Charlotte watch her every move. She knew the location of the safe before I even entered the room."

"And you still let me set off the smoke alarm, knowing that we had it in the bag?" John asked, his brow permanently furrowed, it seemed.

"This was an important step," Sherlock informed him. "The woman had to remain under the illusion that Charlotte was beneath her. She has to be the dominant in the room, the one in charge. If Charlotte had told her right then and there that she knew where the safe was, she would have gotten rid of her before we had the chance to get inside."

"I needed Sherlock to figure out the code," Charlotte explained. "Apparently, I'm not that observant." She bobbed her eyebrows and gave Sherlock a slightly teasing look, which he brushed over.

"When we arrived, John, Adler continued to treat Charlotte like a pet, belittling her intelligence when she could. She had to establish herself as the alpha-female to keep our attention," Sherlock continued on. "And Charlotte sat silently by, letting it happen until it was time for the tables to turn. It all happened rather quickly, one thing after the other. Charlotte correctly answered my question about the hiker, when Adler couldn't. Then, when the alarm went off, she followed Adler's eyes, while I pretended not to."

"Where were you looking?" John asked curiously.

"At Charlotte, of course," Sherlock answered simply. "Remember that The Woman must be the dominant female in the room—that includes being the most intelligent _and_ the most desirable. Without either of those things, she's powerless. When outsmarted, she relies on her ability to control others with sex. By implying my preference for Charlotte, I made it clear that she was both outsmarted and out-desired. All of the sudden, there was a new dominant female in the room."

"And it all would have worked if I hadn't completely lost it in the end," Charlotte scoffed, shaking her head. "How is she supposed to see me as a threat now?"

"I'll admit, I didn't anticipate the CIA intervention," Sherlock said. "But it doesn't negate all the progress we made."

"How?" Charlotte demanded. "How does my going catatonic not negate that?"

"Who did both John and I rush to help?" Sherlock asked. "You kept our allegiance, even in a near-vegetable state." He cracked a slightly teasing smile.

"Still," Charlotte, remaining unconvinced. "I need to toughen up. You, John, and Irene—"

"—are a high-functioning sociopath, an army doctor traumatized beyond repair, and a woman who chokes, whips, and binds people for money," Sherlock interjected. "You are the most human of all of us, and I suggest you stay that way."

"What he said," John seconded. "You're better off than the lot of us, combined."

Charlotte was somewhat stunned, blinking a few times before she could answer. "Well…thank you," she uttered finally.

"Nothing to thank us for," Sherlock replied. "It's simply the truth."

John looked at Charlotte carefully. "Will you come back to work on Thursday?" he asked.

Charlotte nodded. "I will," she replied. "I can't leave you two all alone with Irene Adler, now can I?" She smiled gently. "Especially now."

John snorted out a laugh. "We've already seen her naked, how much worse can it get?"

"She'll be going after Sherlock now," Charlotte stated.

"She's already begun," Sherlock informed Charlotte, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

"Has she?" John asked, looking at his flatmate incredulously. "Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this."

"Oh, it's not," Sherlock assured him.

Realization washed over John. "The strange text sound," he said. "That's her?"

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed, nodding.

"You've been texting each other?" Charlotte asked, incredulous.

"She's been texting me," Sherlock corrected. "I haven't been replying. You didn't think I would be that easy, did you?"

"Well…" Charlotte responded, scratching at the back of her head.

"Why exactly is she going after Sherlock?" John wondered.

"Since she can't outsmart him, the only way she can hope to control him is to seduce him," Charlotte answered. "She needs Sherlock, for some reason unbeknownst to me."

"It's a simple matter of winning," Sherlock brushed it off. "She wants what she thinks she can't have. She wants to reestablish dominance over you, and she thinks this is the way to do it."

"Fantastic," John responded.

"Not much we can do about it," Charlotte admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. "It's up to Sherlock now to stave her off."

"Well, then we had better hope she sticks to electronic communication," John said with a bob of his eyebrows.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock demanded indignantly.

"It means you went to absolute putty the moment she had her clothes off," John replied matter-of-factly. "You weren't even able to make deductions—and don't deny that. I could see it in your face, plain as day. You were powerless."

"He'll be fine," Charlotte insisted, giving John a look. She waited a beat before speaking again. "The important thing is that we know Irene isn't going to do anything with those photos. They're her insurance policy, not fuel for blackmail."

"And that's what I've told Mycroft," Sherlock said, nodding curtly. "Onto the next case."

"Is there a next case?" Charlotte asked.

"Unfortunately not," Sherlock replied disappointedly. "It looks like you'll be bound to your computer on Thursday, unless something comes up."

Charlotte nodded as she plucked the milk carton from the table, moving to return it to the refrigerator. When she closed refrigerator door, she noticed the envelope she had stuck to it with a magnet. She carefully removed it and brought it over to the table. "Before I forget," she said. "These are the tickets for graduation." She reached into the envelope and withdrew three, leaving one inside for her brother.

"Graduation? What graduation?" Sherlock questioned as he watched John take the tickets from Charlotte.

"My graduation," Charlotte responded, glancing at Sherlock. "Haven't I invited you?"

"No, you have not," Sherlock replied, playing offended.

"Well, you're invited," Charlotte told him with a smile. "Will you go?"

"Let me see that," Sherlock said, snatching one ticket from John. He looked it over rather thoroughly before saying, "Wouldn't miss it." He quickly tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

Charlotte's smile broadened. "Excellent," she replied. "I guess I'll have all four seats filled, after all. And you'll get a chance to meet Ollie. He's been haranguing me to introduce him."

"Ollie?" Sherlock questioned, cocking an eyebrow.

"My brother," Charlotte stated.

"I don't think I've ever known your brother's name," John realized with a perplexed look. "Have I?"

"No," Charlotte responded. "It was intentional. I didn't want you to know it until I knew I could trust you both. Security reasons."

"And now you trust us," Sherlock ascertained. "All it took was one hold up. You're easy, Green."

Charlotte snorted and shook her head. "No, I'm human, remember?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock agreed, his lips twitching up. "Quite human, indeed."

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Okaaaay, so I fibbed. I originally said Scandal would be split into 2 or 3 parts, but it's looking more like 4 or 5. The more I write, the more I realize how JUICY this episode is. Bear with me! Part IV is going to be a good one ;) Thanks for reading, as always. xx**


	6. A Scandal in Belgravia: Part IV

**A NOTE TO READERS:** **This fic is rated T, but there is some potentially ~M~ stuff toward the end of the chapter. What is it, you ask? You'll have to read on to find out.**

After graduation, summer quickly turned into fall. As Charlotte began her graduate coursework, her five days per week at Baker Street reduced back down to two. The experience she was getting was unparalleled, as she usually heard her classmates complaining about. A few of them had internships with this police precinct or that, but were mostly stuck at the station behind desks, dealing with large volumes of paperwork. Since Sherlock's work was unrestricted, so was Charlotte—and that was the way she liked it.

Over the summer months, they had cracked case after case. They rolled through fall, doing much the same. As the seasons changed, they had all remained on alert for Irene Adler's next move. However, aside from the occasional moaning text alert, she had disappeared from their radar entirely. They knew where she was and what she had, but she selected to remain dormant. By the time winter came and their caseload had crept to a halt, they were all comfortable in believing things might stay quiet for a while.

That Christmas Eve, as Charlotte carefully applied her blood red lipstick in the reflection of her compact mirror, she barely thought of The Woman. The small bag of gifts she had brought swung from the crook of her elbow as she closed up her compact and stuffed it and the lipstick tube into her purse. She was standing just outside 221B, preparing to go inside for the festivities.

"Are you going up?" asked a familiar voice.

Charlotte turned to see Molly Hooper striding up the sidewalk toward her, a bag full of presents dangling by her side. "Yeah, eventually," she replied, smiling warmly. "I just had to put the finishing touches on, you know. Got a bit of a late start this evening."

"Me too," Molly admitted. "It takes a lot longer to do myself up than I remember." She chuckled.

"You look lovely," Charlotte commented, observing Molly's rather large, silver hoops. "Very festive."

"You look nice, too," Molly responded complimentarily. "I don't know if I've ever seen you with make up on."

"I tend to stay away from it. But, you know, special occasion," Charlotte replied with a smile and a small shrug. She gestured up toward the front door. "Shall we?" she asked as she began to pick her way up the stairs. She rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Hudson opened up, her face lighting up in delight. "Oh, I was wondering if you two would ever make it," she said. "Come in, come in. Out of the cold."

Charlotte shuffled inside and was happy for the warmth. "Sorry I'm late," she told Mrs. Hudson. "I had to get Ollie sorted before I left. First Christmas with his girlfriend's folks, and he thought he could wear a t-shirt. Honestly." She snorted and shook her head.

"Well, I hope you snapped a photo of the finished product," Mrs. Hudson said. "I'm sure you spiffed him right up."

Charlotte nodded. "I'll show you later," she assured her. She began to climb the stairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson and Molly to chat.

When she walked into the upstairs flat, John spotted her and approached. "Charlotte," he greeted. "Happy Christmas." He rather awkwardly extended his arms and they embraced.

"Happy Christmas," Charlotte echoed, smiling to herself as she pulled away.

"Why do I feel like it's been ages?" John wondered.

"It has been two weeks," Charlotte replied. "That's seemed like ages to me."

"How'd the exams go?" John asked.

"Fine, I hope," Charlotte responded, showing him her fingers crossed.

"I'm sure you aced them," John assured her. "Not a doubt in my mind."

A tall, beautiful woman appeared at his elbow. "Ah, yes," John said, as if remembering. "Charlotte, this is Jeanette. My girlfriend."

"Pleasure to meet you, Charlotte," Jeanette told her, extending her hand. "It's nice to finally put a face to a name."

"Likewise," Charlotte responded, taking her hand. "John's told me so much about you. A teacher—the most admirable profession there is."

Jeanette smiled bashfully. "Yes, well, someone's got to do it," she replied. She took John's hand gingerly. "If you don't mind, Charlotte, I'm just going to steal John away for a moment."

"Fine by me," Charlotte replied. "I've got to get out of this coat, anyway. I'm roasting." She left them with a smile and made a beeline for the coat rack. She put down the bag of gifts and began to shrug out of her coat.

"I don't know why you bother," Sherlock spoke from beside her, having made his way over undetected.

"Because I'm a decent person who wants John to find love," Charlotte responded. She tugged at her coat, realizing it was stuck.

"She'll be gone by next week," Sherlock stated. "John shouldn't waste his time and neither should you."

"I guess there has to be at least one Scrouge on Christmas," Charlotte joked, growing frustrated with her coat as she tugged at it feebly.

"The coat tag is stuck on the zipper of your dress," Sherlock observed. "Would you like me to get it?"

"Would you?" Charlotte asked, exhausted. She let her arms flop at her sides.

Sherlock stepped closer and carefully disentangled the tag from the zipper. Then, he peeled the coat from Charlotte's shoulders as she simultaneously shrugged out of it.

"Sweet freedom," Charlotte commented as Sherlock hung the article on one of the wooden pegs. Beneath her coat she wore a black velvet dress. It was a simple garment with long sleeves, a squared neckline, and a skirt that hugged until just above the knee. "Am I wrinkled anywhere?" she asked, smoothing the sleeves down with a hand. "I would hate for Mrs. Hudson to take an iron to me in front of all these people."

"I don't think there's room for a wrinkle in that dress," Sherlock replied, giving her a once over with his eyebrows raised.

"Excuse you," Charlotte objected. She swatted him in the shoulder. "A simple 'no' would suffice."

"Forgive me," Sherlock mumbled, cracking the smallest of teasing smiles. "I was simply making an observation."

"Well, your observations aren't welcome if that's the nature of them," Charlotte tutted, fighting back a smile of her own. "Now, tell me how fantastic I look before I get really cross."

"It's a lovely dress, Charlotte," Sherlock amended, giving her a sincere look.

Charlotte smiled, satisfied. Then, she leaned in slightly. "Do you really think it's too form-fitting for a Christmas do?" she wondered in a near whisper. "I don't want to look hired."

Sherlock chuckled quietly and shook his head. "You look like a woman of distinction. Certainly not hired," he assured her.

Charlotte curtsied graciously and then gave him a pointed look. "Try leading with that the next time," she suggested.

Molly approached them. "Get some mistletoe for you two, eh?" she joked, laughing a bit too loud at her own joke.

Sherlock grimaced. "Molly," he greeted. "Can I help you with your coat?"

Molly blushed and turned around so Sherlock could help her.

"I'm gonna get a drink," Charlotte said to nobody in particular, shuffling off toward the kitchen.

"Well, my goodness," Mrs. Hudson proclaimed as Charlotte entered, doing a double take. "Is that the same Charlotte who does the typing? Doesn't look like her." She grinned slyly.

"Mrs. Hudson, not you too," Charlotte scolded playfully. "It's just a dress and some mascara."

"I've never seen you all done up, save your graduation," Mrs Hudson reminded her. "And you were in a cap and gown then."

"Maybe I should have worn a cap and gown tonight," Charlotte mumbled. She found an open bottle of red wine and poured herself a glass, sipping it as she watched Mrs. Hudson lay finger sandwiches onto a platter. "Can I help with anything?"

"You can put those pies onto a platter," Mrs. Hudson told her, nodding over at the stove where the pies sat waiting.

Charlotte busied herself with the pies, carefully stacking them into a pyramid on the plate. "I think I'll take these out there," she told the landlady.

"Yes, enjoy the party," Mrs. Hudson urged. "I'll be out in a moment."

Charlotte picked up the platter in one hand like a waitress and clutched her wine glass in her other.

"Oh, and Charlotte," Mrs. Hudson said. Charlotte turned around, in case she would receive further instruction. "You're always beautiful, dear—it's just a bit different when you let yourself shine. You'll have to give us all time to pick our jaws up off the floor." She winked and then looked back down to the finger sandwiches, as if nothing had been said at all.

Charlotte exited the kitchen with a dazed sort of smile, taken off guard in the best way by such a sincere compliment. She almost ran into Lestrade, who grunted and stepped out of her way just in time. "Sorry," she apologized. "Um…pie?"

"Don't mind if I do," Lestrade said, picking one from the plate and biting into it. He smiled complacently.

Charlotte walked over to the table to set the platter down and did a quick scan of the room. John and Jeanette were seated on the couch, talking quietly to one another. Sherlock and Molly were still in the corner by the coatrack. With Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, that left her with Lestrade. "So, how are things at Scotland Yard?" she asked, not knowing what else to talk to him about.

"Quite all right, at the moment," Lestrade answered. "You three would be the first to know if something was really off."

Charlotte chuckled. "I suppose you're right," she responded. "It's been pretty quiet around here, too. I guess psychopaths hibernate in the winter."

"I wish we were so lucky," Lestrade admitted. "I'm trying to go on holiday with the family tomorrow. I just pray it stays calm until I get back."

Charlotte sipped her wine and nodded her agreement.

"So, I hear you might be kicking around Scotland Yard in a couple years' time," Lestrade commented, raising his eyebrows. "Do you think you can go from the world of unincorporated crime solving to being one of us?"

"Dunno," Charlotte replied as she cracked a smile. "But I think if I can adapt to the way Sherlock Holmes does things, I can adapt to pretty much any work environment."

Lestrade let out a burst of laughter. "Right you are," he said. "How have you managed all this time?" he wondered aloud. "It's been, what? Nine months?"

"Just about," Charlotte answered, nodding. Then, she shrugged. "Oddly enough, I feel like I fit right in."

"But you seem so…normal," Lestrade observed. He smiled and shook his head. "I can't even imagine how you function here."

"Maybe I'm less normal than you think," Charlotte joked, bobbing her eyebrows. "Or maybe it's not as bad as you think."

"Don't get me wrong," Lestrade said. "I'll be the first person to advocate that Sherlock Holmes has a heart of gold. But the man drives me nuts."

"That's because you have to share cases with him," Charlotte pointed out. "I'm sure it's very…humbling to have someone breeze in and tell you how to do your job. Especially someone who so enjoys it." She grimaced, hoping she hadn't spoken too frankly.

Lestrade looked understanding. "I'll counter that and say it must be nice when he actually values your opinion," he told her. "He puts great stock in what you say, Charlotte. He just steamrolls me."

"That's because Charlotte is generally brighter than the average bear, Lestrade," Sherlock justified, appearing beside them. He gave the inspector an almost taunting look.

Lestrade blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. "Can't you be nice for once? It's Christmas."

"Why does everyone think I'll hold back my opinions just because of the holiday?" Sherlock asked curiously, looking between Charlotte and Lestrade. "What about this day gives people the belief that I should be 'nice?'"

Charlotte laughed, while Lestrade tried not to look amused.

Molly popped over, a glass of champagne now in her hand. "What's everyone so giggly about?" she asked.

"Sherlock's utter lack of holiday spirit," Lestrade explained. "It would take a Christmas miracle for him to have a bit of cheer."

"I'm cheerful," Sherlock defended.

"Yeah, when you're talking about murder," Lestrade countered, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Don't deny it."

Charlotte left the men to their bickering and instead looked at Molly. "So, Molly, any other plans for the holiday?" she asked curiously.

"Not many, no," Molly admitted with a sheepish smile. "Going to go see mum and dad, but other than that I'll just be staying in."

"Aren't you going to be seeing your new boyfriend?" Sherlock asked, tuning into their conversation.

Charlotte cracked an interested smile. "I didn't know you were seeing anyone new, Molly," she said. "What's he like?"

"I'm not seeing anyone new," Molly stammered, looking at Sherlock as if he had accused her of something.

"Clearly you are, and clearly you're serious about him," Sherlock contradicted.

"What are you—?"

"You see, if you look at the presents Molly has brought, the one on top is perfectly wrapped with care—something she neglected to do with the others," Sherlock explained to Lestrade and Charlotte.

Charlotte looked at the presents, then glanced at Molly. Seeing the horrorstruck look on the woman's face, she realized almost immediately what was happening and hurried to intervene. She put her foot on top of Sherlock's, pressing down with increasing weight.

"It's on top of all the others, a clear prioritization," Sherlock continued, not catching the hint. "The paper's red—the color of passion, romance—while the bow is gold, meaning loyalty and devotion. Even if she didn't intend it, she subconsciously used these colors to—Charlotte! Are you aware that you're standing on my foot?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Charlotte replied. "So clumsy." She shot him a harsh look, hoping he would understand and stop.

"Anyway," Sherlock rolled on. "Let's have a look, shall we? We all ought to know the name of this mystery man." He stepped toward the bag of presents.

Charlotte took a step to intercept him, but her heel caught on the rug and she ended up tripping forward, essentially flinging her half-drunk glass of wine into Sherlock's face. She bumped awkwardly into his chest and his arms jutted out to catch her by the shoulders.

Lestrade burst out laughing and even Molly had to cover her mouth to stifle giggles.

The slip up had gotten John and Jeanette's attention from where they were on the couch. John stood and began to walk toward them, a delighted smile lifting on his face. "It really is Christmas, after all," he commented cheerily.

Charlotte peered up at Sherlock with a severely sheepish look. "I am so sorry," she breathed out.

"Quite all right," Sherlock replied, blinking wine out of his eyes. "Although, I think you're going to have to start advertising yourself accurately. You're not clumsy, you're catastrophic." He gently helped Charlotte back to an upright position and, when she got a full look at him, she realized he was smiling. As she watched, he snorted and shook his head.

"Good heavens, what happened?" Mrs. Hudson wondered from the kitchen doorway, holding the plate of sandwiches.

"Charlotte's just threw her drink in my face," Sherlock explained.

"Thank St. Nick for that," John joked. "I told you that shirt was ghastly." The laughter in the room only increased.

"If you'll excuse me…" Sherlock pardoned himself, walking for the kitchen and shooting John a look.

Charlotte followed him, feeling that she should at least help with the clean up. Molly caught her eye as she hurried past, mouthing a "thank you."

When Charlotte entered the kitchen, Sherlock was wetting a tea towel. She approached him at the sink, figuring they had enough privacy now. "That will teach you," she scolded, leaning up against the counter and crossing her arms.

"Are you saying that was intentional?" Sherlock questioned, turning his head to gawk at her.

"Well, not exactly," Charlotte had to admit. "But the whole reason I tripped was because I was trying to stop you from getting to that gift."

"The gift?" Sherlock questioned. "This was all over a gift? Come on, Charlotte—it was all in good fun. You know Molly's always dying to tell us about her boyfriends."

Charlotte stared at him for a moment. "You know, sometimes I start to believe you're the smartest man on the planet, and then I remember how very dense you can be," she told him.

"Dense?" Sherlock clarified. "You're saying I'm dense?" He wiped his face quickly and then jutted the tea towel toward her.

Charlotte snatched it up and began to dab at the burgundy spots peppering his light blue button-up. "Bicarbonate of soda?" she asked, glancing up at Sherlock.

Sherlock reach into a nearby cupboard to fish out a box of soda. He set it down on the counter beside her. "Explain yourself. Were my deductions off?"

Charlotte re-wet the towel and dipped it into the soda."No," she answered, dabbing at his collar once again. "Your deductions were spot on. Only, Molly hasn't got a new boyfriend, it was for someone at this party." She flicked her eyes upward, seeing the understanding wash over him.

"Oh," Sherlock responded, sounding slightly embarrassed. "I see."

"You do know, don't you?" Charlotte asked, averting her eyes back to Sherlock's shirt.

"Of course I know," Sherlock replied briskly. "I guess I just…I didn't think of it in the moment."

"You're like a bloodhound on a scent, sometimes," Charlotte joked, chuckling gently. "Tunnel vision."

"I hope you don't think I meant to be cruel," Sherlock said.

Charlotte glanced up. "I know that," she reassured him, hearing the insecurity in his voice. "That's why I couldn't let you go through with it. I knew you would feel terrible afterwards."

"Should I apologize?" Sherlock asked.

Charlotte thought that over as she rubbed at a particularly big spot. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'm not sure if that would make her more or less embarrassed. Whatever you do, don't do it publicly. Take her aside and tell her privately."

Sherlock nodded, as if taking mental notes.

"So—?"

"No, I have never reciprocated Molly's feelings and, no, I will most likely never explore the option," Sherlock cut her off, somehow knowing exactly what she was going to ask. "She's not my type," he finished conclusively.

"Very well," Charlotte responded, her eyebrows raised in slight astonishment as she wetted the towel under the faucet again.

"And what about you?" Sherlock wondered. "Why are you unattached?"

"It's a choice," Charlotte answered. "I'm too busy to be bothered with dating at the moment."

"You could cut down on your internship hours," Sherlock suggested.

"I know I could," Charlotte replied, shrugging a shoulder. "That's why it's a choice."

"Career over romance, the classic tug-of-war," Sherlock mused, smiling teasingly down at her.

Charlotte shot him an unconvincing peeved look. "My thought is if I meet the right person, it won't have to be a tug of war," she said. "Until then, I'll just keep studying and hanging 'round with you and John."

Sherlock seemed to find this an acceptable answer. "So, what of the shirt? Is it salvageable?" he asked.

Charlotte tossed the towel into the sink. "I'm afraid not," she said. She patted Sherlock's lapels. "I think you're going to have to bin it."

At that moment, Sherlock's phone lit up in his trouser pocket and emitted a feminine moan.

"Oh—Sorry!" Molly spluttered from the kitchen doorway, looking mortified.

Charlotte glanced at Sherlock and then at her hands on his chest, surmising how the whole situation must have looked—and sounded—to Molly.

Sherlock and Charlotte stepped apart. "Molly, that wasn't me," Charlotte assured her, chuckling awkwardly. "Sherlock's got this raunchy text sound. Tell her, Sherlock."

But the sleuth was looking down at his text message, brow furrowed deeply. Without another word, he departed the kitchen, moving past Molly into the sitting room.

* * *

After Sherlock had left for the morgue with Molly to identify Irene Adler's body, the party had quickly dispersed. Lestrade had gone home, which left John, Jeanette, Mrs. Hudson, and Charlotte. With not much else to keep them occupied, the four of them went about cleaning up after their guests.

While Charlotte was in the kitchen washing dishes, John had received a call. Charlotte didn't think much of it until the cleaning was done and the four of them seated themselves around the sitting room. That was when she began to notice that John and Mrs. Hudson were acting strange—tense. They all tried their hand at small talk before the room dissolved into silence.

"Well, I suppose I can't stay up all night," Mrs. Hudson said finally, letting out a tired sigh. She rose from her seat on the sofa and touched John's arm on her way to the door. "Do let me know if there's anything I can do," she told him.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John responded. "Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte called after her. The door to the flat closed and the room seemed more silent than it had before.

"This is ridiculous," Jeanette claimed suddenly, shooting John a sour look. "I don't know what we're waiting around for."

"We're waiting for Sherlock," John reminded her, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

Jeanette let out a huffy breath and stood. "Well, I'm not," she stated. "I'm going back to my flat. You can choose whether you come with me or not."

John looked pulled in two different directions.

"John, I can wait up for Sherlock," Charlotte offered quietly. "If it's really that important, I'll stay until he gets here and then catch a cab back to Barking."

John stood abruptly. "A word," he requested of Charlotte. Then, he looked at Jeanette beseechingly. "Please, don't leave. Two minutes, I promise."

Charlotte rose from her seat and followed John to his room. He closed the door behind them and she looked at him inquisitively. "What's going on?" she asked, concerned.

"He uses," John stated plainly.

"Drugs, you mean?" Charlotte clarified, taken off guard. "Sherlock?"

John nodded gravely. "He's had problems in the past and Mycroft seems to think tonight might be a troubling one for him."

"Why tonight?" Charlotte asked. "Is it the holidays, or…?"

"He thinks Irene Adler's death is affecting him in some way," John explained. "I don't know why or how, but that's what he told me over the phone. He said I should be on high alert when Sherlock gets home. Mrs. Hudson and I already checked his hiding places and he's clean, by all appearances, but—"

"You never know," Charlotte interjected, nodding knowingly.

John looked sympathetic. "Charlotte, I know you have a past with your parents," he said. "And I didn't want to leave you here without you knowing the whole story. Truth be told, I think you're the perfect person to intercept him, but I want to make sure you're entirely comfortable."

"Why do you say that? That I'm the perfect person?" Charlotte asked, curious. "I certainly couldn't keep my parents off drugs, so why would you think I could keep Sherlock off them?"

"Because…" John let out an exasperated sound, pressed. "He wants to be good for you, Charlotte—for whatever reason. It's not a decency he shows me or anyone else. If there's anyone whose being here could make him even a bit less reckless, it would be you."

Charlotte chewed on the inside of her cheek as she absorbed the information. Then, she nodded affirmatively. "I'll stay," she told John. "No use breaking up your relationship over this."

"Thank you," John replied gratefully, looking more than slightly relieved. "If anything goes awry, you call me, okay? Jeanette's isn't too far from here."

"Everything will be fine," Charlotte assured him, beginning to usher him out of his room. "I'll crash on the couch so I can keep a watchful eye."

"You're getting a raise," John joked as they walked out into the sitting room. Jeanette was waiting by the door looking very impatient.

"Buy me a pint sometime and we'll call it even," Charlotte snorted, shoving John toward the door.

* * *

While she awaited Sherlock's return, Charlotte made herself at home. She found a wash cloth in the bathroom and wet it with warm water to remove her makeup. Once the makeup was off, she thought it rather silly to stay in her dress. Although it felt wrong a bit wrong to go into John's room and rifle through his drawers, she did it. She was able to find a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, and then went back to the bathroom to slip them on. She beheld herself in the mirror as she tied her hair into a ponytail, thinking it was the finishing touch to her transformation. Feeling comfortable at last, she padded into the kitchen to boil water for tea.

When the key turned in the lock sometime later, Charlotte was seated on the couch under a blanket, book in one hand and the mug of tea at her fingertips on the side table. She glanced up to see Sherlock enter the flat, a look of surprise registering on his face at the sight of her.

"Good evening," the detective greeted, almost uneasily. "You're not John."

"John's at Jeanette's," Charlotte answered simply, setting her book down on her lap. "I stayed late to clean up and didn't want to foot the cab fare home. I'll catch the tube in the morning."

"Not even the semblance of a good excuse," Sherlock critiqued, shaking his head as he continued into the room.

"I have to admit, I didn't really try," Charlotte replied with a shrug, watching Sherlock closely as he took a seat in the armchair opposite her.

"I knew Mycroft was acting strangely," Sherlock admitted with a scoff. "So, I trust they've searched me? They've found that I'm clean?"

Charlotte nodded slowly, eyes not leaving him.

"Stop looking at me like that," Sherlock snapped.

"Like what?" Charlotte asked, remaining calm.

"Like you're evaluating me," Sherlock answered. "Stop it."

"I'm a first-term grad student, Sherlock," Charlotte reminded him with a snort. "That's hardly a shrink. Who says I can even see anything?"

"You see everything," Sherlock countered, staring her down. "Don't you think I've realized that by now?"

Charlotte was silent for a few moments. "I can see that you're upset," she said evenly. "But I can't see why."

"Well, stop trying," Sherlock demanded, scowling.

"Fine," Charlotte relinquished easily. "I'm just here to keep you off drugs, not get to the root of the problem." She retrieved her book off her lap and glued her eyes to the page. "I boiled the kettle. Water should still be hot if you want tea."

Sherlock grumbled an unintelligible reply and rose from his seat, stalking into the kitchen. He returned momentarily with his own mug of tea, slumping back into the armchair with a sigh. They remained in silence for a long while, the only sounds the sipping of tea and the turning of pages.

At some point, Sherlock shifted in his seat a few times and then cleared his throat. "How old were you when you lost your virginity?" he asked suddenly.

Charlotte was more than a little confused by the question, but she wouldn't let it show. "Virginity is a social construct," she responded, sounding almost bored. She turned a page in her book.

Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. "Very well. How old were you when you had sex for the first time?"

Charlotte lifted her eyes from her book and returned it to her lap. "Seventeen," she answered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly in scrutiny. "It was a bad experience," he posited. "Don't deny it. I heard it in your tone."

"It didn't go as I planned," Charlotte explained. "It was with my boyfriend of nearly a year. We were madly in love—at least what I would have considered madly in love back then. We were at a party and we were drinking. He asked me and I said yes. There was no force involved, but…I wish he hadn't thought to ask me when I was drunk."

"Do you remember it?" Sherlock wondered.

"I do," Charlotte responded, nodding. "But I guess I just wish I had been fully myself when it was happening."

"What was it like?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"Well…a bit awkward, if I'm being honest," Charlotte responded. "Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was quick for him and it hurt for me." She chuckled reminiscently. "You know how it is."

"I don't, actually," Sherlock divulged. He then fell silent. When she tried to meet his eyes, he quickly averted his gaze. "I'm sure you could have surmised that for yourself," he spoke into his lap.

Charlotte knew she had to tread carefully. "So, it's true then," she replied gently.

Sherlock nodded minutely. "I suppose my brother hasn't been coy about his ridicule," he sniffed. "Nor John about his suspicion. Even Irene Adler could see right through me."

"I always took all that with a grain of salt," Charlotte admitted. "I thought maybe you had, but…it had been a while, or something."

"You're too kind, Charlotte," Sherlock replied with a look of chagrin.

"I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of," Charlotte stated affirmatively.

Sherlock's eyes drifted up, finally meeting hers. When he saw that she was being honest, he pressed on. "You don't think it strange? Or sad, even?" he asked pointedly.

"No," Charlotte reiterated. "I think you're afraid of the unknown. Trusting someone to show you the way isn't exactly your style. Clearly, you just haven't found the right person."

Sherlock cracked the smallest of smiles, but it soon descended into a frown.

"Did you think Irene Adler was that person?" Charlotte asked, her voice as nonjudgmental as she could make it.

"I thought…" Sherlock swallowed past a dry throat. "I thought she was someone who could teach me—and expert on sex. And she was clearly interested, but I just…" He shook his head. "I could never reply."

"And now she's gone," Charlotte concluded.

"And with her an opportunity," Sherlock added glumly.

Charlotte nodded in understanding, one corner of her mouth slanting down. "I'm sorry," she told him genuinely, meeting his eyes.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, nodding. "My brother was correct in thinking I would be upset, but he certainly jumped to drastic conclusions."

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "He's just concerned about you," she offered.

"Yes," Sherlock sniffed. "Rather annoying if you ask me."

"About the sex thing," Charlotte said after a pause. "There are other options. There's always—"

"Molly," Sherlock finished her thought. "No, I don't think so."

"Well, that leaves Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte joked.

Sherlock reddened. "Don't be silly," he spluttered. "I would never—"

"I know you wouldn't," Charlotte interjected, chuckling. "Jesus, Sherlock. I know you wouldn't." She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Sherlock smiled, despite himself. "I divulge my deepest secret and you're making jokes?" he demanded. "You're a horrible shrink."

"Not a shrink," Charlotte reminded him, still tittering with laughter.

"I do hope doctor-patient confidentiality still stands," Sherlock fished, raising his eyebrows.

Charlotte gave him as serious a look as she could muster. "Of course it does," she assured him. "I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you," Sherlock responded with a curt nod.

Charlotte stood and picked up her mug. "I need more tea," she stated. "You want anything?"

"I'm all right," Sherlock responded, nodding contently.

Charlotte went to the kitchen and poured herself more water from the kettle, processing the conversation she had just had. She thought back to how Mycroft and Irene Adler had taunted Sherlock for his chastity. Even John had, on occasion, made a casual insinuation. Her brow furrowed as she thought about how he had been shamed for something absolutely ridiculous. Shaking the feeling of indignation, she plopped a tea bag in her mug and made her way back out to the sitting room.

"Are those John's joggers?" Sherlock questioned as she reentered the room, his brow arching.

Charlotte grinned. "I wasn't about to stay in that dress all night, was I?" she asked. "You said it yourself—it was too tight. I had begun to feel like a sausage stuffed in its casing."

Sherlock made a face. "You really know how to paint a picture," he commented. "And, in my defense, I never said it was too tight," he reminded her. "If I remember correctly—which I do—I said 'I don't think there's room for a wrinkle in that dress.'"

Charlotte rolled her eyes, blowing on her tea. "You are such an ass."

"What was I supposed to say?" Sherlock wondered. "I couldn't have possibly said what I was really thinking, at the risk of being inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" Charlotte repeated, her eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, now you've got to tell me."

"No, I don't," Sherlock countered, looking offended at the very mention. "Piece it together for yourself."

Charlotte shook her head. "I'm not that creative. Come on. Out with it."

"No," Sherlock replied simply, looking up at her with a rather satisfied look. "I would rather not offend you with my most base thoughts. Just know that, while I appreciated the dress, I am much more at ease when you look this way. I feel like I'm really looking at Charlotte."

"Is that a good thing?" Charlotte wondered, cocking an eyebrow.

"It's the greatest compliment I can give," Sherlock replied truthfully. He stared up at her with an earnest look.

Charlotte set her mug of tea down on the nearest surface, propelled by a desire she seldom acknowledged. She moved toward Sherlock before she could reason herself out of it. She came to kneel on the seat of the armchair, straddling his lap. She reached around to place a hand on the back of his head, her fingers weaving into his hair. Then, she leaned in, pressing her lips to his.

After a few moments to absorb the shock, Sherlock's body reacted to her. His hands came to rest on her waist, pulling her closer to him, while his lips began to move with hers. They remained in this embrace for a few elongated moments, before he found himself pulling away. "What are you doing?" he asked, breathless.

"Kissing you," Charlotte asked, similarly out of breath. "Is that all right?"

"It's fantastic," Sherlock replied enthusiastically. "But if this is out of pity—"

"No pity, whatsoever," Charlotte interjected readily.

"Good," Sherlock responded.

Charlotte used the interruption as an opportunity to rip her shirt—John's shirt—over her head. She tossed it aside and looked back at Sherlock, whose eyes were practically bulging out of his head. A grin crept up her cheeks as she took his face in her hands and brought her lips back to his.

 **DISCLAIMER:** **The rest of this chapter is rated M.**

* * *

When she touched him for the first time, he sucked in a sharp breath and his entire body shuddered.

"Is this okay?" Charlotte asked, stopping at once. Her eyes darted to his.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, voice choked with anticipation. "Keep going."

She leaned in and kissed him softly, moving her hand as requested.

* * *

"Condoms," Sherlock panted, just after finishing for the first time. "We need condoms."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Charlotte replied from the floor, still perched on her knees. "You haven't even gotten me out of John's trousers yet and you're already talking about condoms?" She chuckled, while he looked embarrassed. "Joking," she assured him, patting his thigh. "I'm sure you can find some in John's room."

Sherlock had begun to smile, seeing the humor in the situation. "Can you take anything seriously?" he asked.

"Not really," Charlotte admitted, grinning.

He reached out and brushed a tendril of hair out of her face. "Meet me in my bedroom," he beckoned alluringly. He took her hands and rose to his feet, bringing her with him.

* * *

When she moaned for the first time, Sherlock lifted his head from between her legs and looked at her in question. "What was that?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what was that?" Charlotte demanded, propping herself up on her elbows. "I was moaning."

"You were faking," Sherlock contradicted.

"How could you tell?" Charlotte queried exasperatedly.

"I'm still me," Sherlock snorted.

"Well…it's what we do," Charlotte explained as best she could. "Otherwise, it would just be quiet the whole time."

"The whole time?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"Sometimes," Charlotte admitted. "Usually, you're not as good as you think you are. But we appreciate the effort."

"I don't want a consolation prize," Sherlock scoffed. "And I don't want a soundtrack. I want to know that I'm doing it right."

Charlotte let out a peal of laughter. "What? Like a status report?"

"Precisely," Sherlock replied, looking less than amused at her amusement.

"So serious," Charlotte accused, reaching down to run her hand through his hair. "Fine. No sounds unless you've earned them." She fell back into the bed. "Continue."

* * *

She decided to begin on top, wanting to give him a chance to get used to the sensations before she let him drive.

"Are you ready?" Charlotte asked him, straddling his hips. He lay on the bed beneath her, his entire body taut as he stared up at her.

"I think so," Sherlock replied, sounding slightly nervous. His hands held her hips in a vice-like grip.

"I won't start till it's an absolute yes," Charlotte responded. She settled back on her haunches, extending a hand and trailing it up and down Sherlock's chest. "Try to relax, Sherlock. Breathing would be a good start."

Sherlock chuckled, but it sounded more like he was being strangled. He closed his eyes and lay his head back. His hands loosened their grip on her hips and he began to run them up and down her thighs, the motion soothing him. Eventually, his chest began to rise and fall more rhythmically.

"We don't have to do it tonight," Charlotte reassured him. "We can go back to doing other stuff, if you want. We could sleep, even—"

"Charlotte," Sherlock interrupted her, speaking clearly. His eyes opened up and he looked deep into hers. "I'm ready."

* * *

They did it a second time with him on top. After a few minutes of pointless thrusting, Sherlock let out a frustrated sound. "What am I doing wrong?" he asked, looking down at her. "You seemed to enjoy it so much the first time."

"That's because I know exactly what I like," Charlotte answered. "It takes a while for partners to figure out what the other likes. Don't be so hard on yourself." She cracked a consoling smile. "You can't be the best right away."

Sherlock let out a displeased sigh, slumping down to lay on top of her. Charlotte traced a finger up and down his spine. "You're overthinking it," she told him.

"Overthinking is what I do best," Sherlock replied, his voice muffled in her shoulder. "Deductions, remember?"

"You can still do deductions," Charlotte told him. "Stop using your head and start using your senses. You can deduce how I'm feeling by the way my body reacts to you. The way my breathing fluctuates. The way my muscles tense. The way I tighten myself around you."

"I'll try," Sherlock replied finally. He picked himself up, looking determined. He gazed down at her, his lips twitching. "No promises," he warned.

"I didn't ask for any," Charlotte replied, smiling softly in return.

* * *

Afterwards, they lay together in an exhausted heap.

"Top marks, Mr. Holmes," Charlotte commended, panting. "I can honestly say I have never seen such immediate improvement."

Sherlock smiled smugly to himself.

"I saw that," Charlotte called him out, chuckling breathlessly.

They rested in comfortable silence for a while, their intermingled breath the only thing to be heard. An inviting heat existed between their bodies, and Charlotte moved closer to capitalize on it. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in.

"Will you stay?" he murmured into her hair, breaking the silence after a few minutes.

Charlotte sighed out through her nose. "I don't know, Sherlock," she replied, uncertain.

"Are you worried about John finding out?" Sherlock questioned softly.

"Aren't you?" Charlotte asked.

Sherlock hummed in the affirmative. "But he won't be home until morning," he reasoned. "He and…?"

"Jeanette," Charlotte assisted.

"—Jeanette will most likely have a lay in and then have breakfast together. It's something of a routine."

Charlotte thought this information over, suspecting Sherlock, if anyone, would be acutely aware of John's routines. There was still some uncertainty involved, but the thought of sleeping on the sofa was becoming less and less appealing. "I'll stay," she told him finally.

Sherlock took her face in his hands, turning her head so he could kiss her.

After a while, the two of them broke apart, only separating long enough to get under the covers. Then, they were tangled up in each other once again.

Charlotte felt secure beside Sherlock, and exhausted in a way she hadn't felt in a while. It was no surprise that she drifted off to sleep almost at once.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: WOW! Long chapter. Did you expect THAT?! I know you have some thoughts, so let me hear 'em. Thanks for reading, as always! xx**


	7. A Scandal in Belgravia: Conclusion

The next morning, Charlotte awoke naturally, hearing Sherlock's metered breathing at her back. She rolled over carefully, not wanting to wake him. However, as soon as she so much as twitched, his eyes blinked open.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice coarse from sleep.

"I don't know," Charlotte responded. "I just woke up."

Sherlock turned away from her to check the clock on his nightstand. "Nearly eight," he said, flopping back onto his side to face her, his blue eyes searching hers. "We're still in the safe zone. I don't expect John back until ten, at the earliest." In no time they were pawing at each other, a frenzy of hands and lips.

The dynamic was different this time around—Charlotte was less the teacher and Sherlock less the student. He kissed and touched her with a newfound confidence that she responded to. Just like the night before, Charlotte didn't make a sound unless Sherlock earned it. And even so, when they were in the heated throes of sex, Charlotte had to muffle her moans behind a hand, not wanting the noises to carry downstairs to Mrs. Hudson.

Afterwards, Sherlock tossed their used condom into the bin beside his bed, sweat glistening at his temples and on his chest. When he rolled back over to fling an arm over Charlotte, he found that she was already sitting on the edge of the bed in preparation to get up.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock inquired, looking rather disappointed.

"We have to stop messing about now," Charlotte told him matter-of-factly, looking at him over her shoulder. "John will be home within the hour."

"And what of the next fifty-nine minutes?" Sherlock wondered, lifting his eyebrows and flashing her an appealing smile.

"Well, I have to shower, for one," Charlotte answered.

Sherlock looked unconvinced. "That will take all of, what? Ten minutes?" he questioned.

Charlotte shook her head and smiled to herself, turning more fully toward him. "I think I've created a monster," she said.

Sherlock chuckled. "I think I've always been one, darling. You've just set me free."

"Oh dear," Charlotte replied, rolling her eyes.

"Charlotte, really," Sherlock's voice had turned sincere, and he reached out to stroke a segment of her spine. "Thank you."

Charlotte moved to cup his chin in her hand. "Don't say thank you unless you're going to pay me, Sherlock," she tutted, her lips twitching up. "I've already told you it wasn't pity. It was—quite literally—my pleasure." She let go of his face and stood.

"I'm happy the first time—and second—and third were with someone I trust," Sherlock confessed candidly. "It made all the difference and I suppose that's what I'm thanking you for. For being that someone."

Charlotte walked as far as the bathroom doorway and then turned back to look at him, smirking playfully. "Well, if you want your fourth time to be with someone you trust in a shower, you had better hurry along." She bobbed her eyebrows and then continued inside.

* * *

Charlotte and Sherlock's tryst remained a secret, something undiscovered by those closest to them, and something they were not assuming to revisit. It was, by all intentions, a one night stand.

The next time Charlotte visited Baker Street was in the morning of New Year's Eve. She and Mrs. Hudson were to have tea—something she had the luxury of doing while school was out for winter holidays.

As she strolled up the street, she saw John climb into the backseat of a black sedan. She figured this was one of Mycroft's usual abduction check-ins. It made sense that he would be summoning John a few days after Irene Adler's death.

She walked up to the door and raised a hand to knock, but didn't have time before Sherlock had swung it wide. He seemed to be on a mission, stopped in his tracks at the sight of her. "Charlotte," he greeted, head tilting to the side in confusion, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm having tea with Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte informed him. She shifted to the side, giving him a way through. "Carry on."

Sherlock nodded curtly and rushed past her into the winter afternoon.

Charlotte continued on into the flat, shutting the door against the cold. "Mrs. Hudson," she called. "I'm here."

"Do come in, dear," the landlady's voice floated out from her kitchen.

Charlotte headed toward the kitchen, withdrawing a small bag from her purse. "So, don't laugh," she prefaced. "But I got the baking bug yesterday and decided to make cookies."

Mrs. Hudson chortled. "Why would I laugh?" she wondered.

"Because they look like this," Charlotte said, stepping around the corner and holding up the burnt remains of her baking excursion.

Mrs. Hudson's laughter grew louder. "Oh, dear," she said. "Well, that's no good. Next time you come 'round, I'll teach you how to do those properly."

Charlotte snorted. "I don't know what went wrong," she admitted, shaking her head. She set the bag down on the table and took a seat, watching Mrs. Hudson rummage through the fridge.

"Drat," Mrs. Hudson cursed, her head obscured from view behind the refrigerator door. "I forgot to get milk this morning."

"I think there was a carton upstairs," Charlotte informed her. "I can't guarantee it's fresh, but I can go check."

"Will you?" Mrs. Hudson wondered. "That would be lovely. Not many shops open on New Year's Eve."

Charlotte exited Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and made her way up the stairs toward Sherlock and John's flat. She was standing in the light of the open fridge, searching for an expiration date on the milk when she heard the front door forced open downstairs. Her first instinct was to call out to Mrs. Hudson, but she thought better of it. Instead, she listened until one of the intruders spoke, betraying an American accent. As soon as she heard, there was only one thing on her mind—Irene Adler's phone. She made her way quietly to Sherlock's bedroom, easily finding the phone in the pocket of one of his coats. She was slipping the mobile into her bra when she heard a crash and a scream downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" she hollered, unthinking. Before she could stop herself, she was thundering down the stairs in pursuit.

When she came skidding into the kitchen, she could see that there were three American agents. She recognized the broad, blond agent who called the shots and the agent who had held the gun to her head. The third held Mrs. Hudson roughly by her upper arms, restraining her. The kitchen table was overturned, the source of the crash from before. "Let her go!" Charlotte demanded. "She's done nothing wrong!"

"I'm okay, Charlotte," Mrs. Hudson reassured her, though she shook and sniveled.

"We'll let her go as soon as she tells us where the phone is," the blond agent sneered at Charlotte. He snapped his fingers, alerting his men. "Grab her, too," he ordered. "We'll bring them upstairs and see if they can't be persuaded to tell us."

Mrs. Hudson winced as the man holding her tightened his grip, and all of the sudden, Charlotte was seeing nothing but red. As the other agent attempted to grab her, she swatted his hand away and advanced on the agent restraining Mrs. Hudson. She attempted to pry his hands from the landlady but he kicked her powerfully in the stomach and it was everything she could do not to collapse. She held onto the counter for support as she tried to regain her breath and then spied the kettle sitting on the stove beside her.

When the agent advanced in another attempt to restrain her, she grasped the kettle's handle and swung at him, connecting with the side of his face. The agent roared in pain, careening backwards and holding his cheek. Using her momentum, Charlotte clicked the cover off the spout and sloshed some of the water into the blond agent's face. He blocked most of the water with his hand, yowling in pain as the water scalded his knuckles. Charlotte continued to act quickly, knowing it was only a matter of time before her luck ran out. She moved swiftly, getting behind the agent who held Mrs. Hudson. She pulled the collar of his suit out, giving her just enough space to tip the kettle in and empty the rest of its contents down his back. The agent released Mrs. Hudson immediately, shrieking in pain as his back was burned.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte urged, ushering the older woman out of the room in front of her. She was almost to the doorway when she felt someone take hold of her ponytail, yanking her back painfully. "Go! Call Scotland Yard!" she called after Mrs. Hudson.

"I wouldn't suggest it, Mrs. Hudson," the blond American seethed. "Or I'll shoot her."

Mrs. Hudson froze in the doorway, turning around slowly with a look of dread, then clapped her hands over her mouth with a whimper. Charlotte looked to see that it was the agent with the bruised face who had her by the hair, but the blond stood parallel, his gun poised to shoot at her temple.

"You're quite the wild card, Ms. Green," the blond agent taunted. The other agent jerked Charlotte around until she was staring down the barrel of the gun. "Too unpredictable, I'm afraid," the blond continued, sounding regrettable. With one swift movement, he reeled back and brought the gun across Charlotte's face, with enough force to render her unconscious.

* * *

When Charlotte awoke, it was mid-afternoon.

As she came to, she became aware of a dull throb emitting from her temple. It was all she could manage to blink her eyes open into slits. She glanced around at the familiar room, grateful that the only light was the lone lamp on the nightstand, and even that had been covered with a scarf. Her vision was clouded behind her eyelashes, but she saw a shape seated at her bedside.

"John, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock's voice rumbled, calling out toward the sitting room. "She's awake!"

Charlotte winced and let her eyes fall shut, bringing a hand to clutch at the side of her head.

"Sorry—sorry," Sherlock remedied, dropping his voice to a whisper. He placed a hand on Charlotte's bicep. "Forgot."

Charlotte felt far away, as if her head were a helium balloon on the end of a long string.

She heard footsteps enter the room and Sherlock's hand removed. Her eyes inched open again and she could see the figure of John standing at Sherlock's shoulder. She felt the bed sag slightly on one side as Mrs. Hudson seated herself. A warm hand caressed the good side of her face and smoothed her hair back. "She looks dreadful," the landlady whispered. "Are you sure that doctor knew what he was doing?"

"I had a look at the scans myself, Mrs. Hudson," John whispered back. "No damage. She's just had her bell severely rung."

"I'll say," Sherlock hissed. "A pistol to the side of the head—not to mention the knock she got when she hit the kitchen floor."

Mrs. Hudson made a noise of disapproval and reached down to take Charlotte's hand. "Well, he got what he deserved," she murmured in a righteous way.

"Three times out the window ought to teach him," John agreed.

"What you did was admirable, dear," Mrs. Hudson complimented. "Scalding them with the kettle was something I never would have thought of."

"A nice touch, indeed," Sherlock commended.

"I just wish you hadn't gone through all that trouble for me," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, sounding sad. She squeezed Charlotte's hand a little harder.

As they all spoke, the events of that morning were slowly trickling back into Charlotte's memory.

"Charlotte, do you remember any of what happened?" John asked softly, seeing her brow crease slightly in the middle.

Charlotte rolled John's words over and over in her head, attempting to find their meaning.

"I would take that as a no," Sherlock replied.

"Amnesia's a fairly normal symptom," John admitted.

When Charlotte was finally able to gather that John had been asking her a question, she attempted to speak, but it felt like her mouth was full of cotton.

"What was that, dear?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, looking at her in confusion.

"Some," Charlotte finally succeeded in pushing out, though it exhausted her.

Indeed, it was all coming back to her slowly, in flashes. The blond agent clubbing her in the side of the head. The scuffle in the kitchen. The sound of Mrs. Hudson screaming coming from downstairs. But what had she been doing upstairs? When realization dawned on her, she began to fidget in bed.

"Charlotte, what's wrong?" John asked, sounding concerned. "Are you comfortable?"

Charlotte's limbs were about as coordinated as her mouth and memory, but she somehow managed to plunge a hand down her shirt and retrieve what she had remembered. She pulled out the camera phone, much to everyone's surprise.

"You have the phone," John stated the obvious, finding it harder to keep his voice down. "You have the bloody phone, how is that possible?"

"She was upstairs when they broke in," Mrs. Hudson informed him. "Must have thought on her feet. Clever girl."

"I need to get to this to the lab," Sherlock said at once, taking the phone from Charlotte and rising from his seat. With a second thought, he bent at the waist and kissed her forehead before departing in a flurry.

"I think you've just made his night," John commented. "He figured The Woman came back to claim what was hers."

Charlotte thoughts swirled. Wasn't Irene Adler dead? Her getting her head bashed didn't suddenly erase that, did it?

"John, I think she needs her rest," Mrs. Hudson murmured. "She looks taxed."

"You're right," John responded. "Charlotte, we'll shut the light and leave you to it. Sherlock's offered his bed to you for as long as you need it. Goodness knows he won't sleep for days, now that he's got that phone."

"And don't worry, I've called Ollie," Mrs. Hudson informed her.

The lamp was clicked off and Charlotte listened as John and Mrs. Hudson shuffled out of the room. It was only a matter of seconds before she was entombed in a deep sleep once again.

* * *

Charlotte awoke in the wee hours of the next morning. At first, she thought she had awoken naturally, but the more conscious she became, the more she realized that wasn't the case. There was someone in the room with her; she could sense their movements. Whoever it was was fumbling around by the foot of the bed. Charlotte sat up, groping for the lamp.

"Who's there?" the intruder asked sharply, startled.

Charlotte succeeded in switching on the lamp, but she knew who the newcomer was before the dim glow hit her face. "Irene?" she questioned in a hushed tone. Now that her brain was back working at near-full capacity, she could piece together just how bizarre this encounter was. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"I've been back from the dead for nearly 24 hours now. Where have you been?" Irene asked, looking almost offended.

"In and out of consciousness," Charlotte informed her. "Your American friends paid Baker Street a visit."

"Did they?" Irene queried.

"But you knew they would, didn't you?" Charlotte replied sourly. "You practically baited them, sending Sherlock your phone."

"I had no other choice," Irene defended coolly. "I knew he would keep it safe."

Sherlock looked at Irene suspiciously. "If you're here to steal it back, you're out of luck. I have no idea where Sherlock's hid it now."

"I'm not here to steal," Irene insisted. "I have an appointment with Sherlock in the morning, whether he knows it or not. My home is under surveillance, but no one would ever think to look here. I've been up for hours and I'm looking for somewhere to lay my head."

"You were probably expecting to find Sherlock," Charlotte guessed. "Have a cuddle with your favorite sleuth, perhaps?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "You'll do. Just shove over."

"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte inquired, looking alarmed.

"Oh, come now, I'm not going to smother you in your sleep. I haven't the energy or the motive," Irene scoffed. She began unlacing her boots.

"Not the most reassuring statement," Charlotte breathed out, though she scooched over to make room for Irene. She rolled onto her side and tucked her chin under the covers. "You had better not snore."

Irene snorted out a laugh and climbed in beside her.

* * *

The next time Charlotte awoke, it was to the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"John, I think we've got a client," he said, standing in the doorway to his room.

"What?" John questioned, his hurried footsteps making their way down the hall. "Oh," he sighed in relief. "I thought something had gone wrong with Charlotte."

Charlotte batted her eyes open, staring out past the foot of the bed at Sherlock and John. Irene barely budged, still deep in sleep.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," she responded, her voice groggy.

"You look much better," John said, converging on her bedside.

"And you're able to form coherent sentences, so that's a plus," Sherlock added, bobbing his eyebrows.

Charlotte scowled at him, not in the mood for his humor. "I need to use the loo," she announced. She climbed out of bed on wobbly legs and stumbled her way toward Sherlock's bathroom.

When she reemerged, both John and Sherlock had left. She found them in the sitting room in their usual positions, John sipping tea and Sherlock looking deep in thought. Charlotte squinted against the light streaming through the curtains, but was happy to feel it was just normal sensitivity, not as it had been the afternoon before.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock inquired, snapping out of his reverie to look at her.

"Fine," Charlotte grunted, taking a seat on the far end of the sofa. "I'm really fine. Just groggy. I've been sleeping for nearly a day."

"Happy New Year," Sherlock responded, one corner of his mouth lifting into a sarcastic smile.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Just tell me you found something," she said. "At the lab, I mean."

The corners of Sherlocks mouth turned down and he shook his head.

Charlotte let out a disappointed sigh, slumping against the back of the sofa. She lifted a hand to rub at her forehead.

"Your head hurting again?" John asked Charlotte, watching her carefully. "Can I get you any water? Tea, maybe? I can call you a cab home, if you like. You must be dying to be in your own bed."

"I'm not going anywhere," Charlotte said, giving John a look as if he were crazy. "Irene Adler is in Sherlock's bed," she stated. When John remained unmoved, she looked at Sherlock in disbelief. "I am the one who bumped my head, right?"

Sherlock sniggered appreciatively, but John looked sour. "You didn't bump your head—somebody smacked you across the face with a pistol," he reminded her. "You've had a rough go of it, Charlotte. You should go home."

Charlotte shook her head. "I appreciate the concern, John, but I'm not leaving you two alone with her," she asserted. "No way."

"She's spoken," Sherlock said, giving John a look. "She's perfectly capable of making her own decisions."

John let out a huffy breath, rising to his feet. "I'm getting you some water," he grumbled. "You should at least be hydrated."

While John was in the kitchen searching for a clean glass, no doubt, the door to Sherlock's room creaked open. "Morning," The Woman greeted with a devilish smile. Her hair fell around her shoulders—a contrast to her usual updo. She also wore plainclothes rather than the clothes she typically wore for business. These two adjustments gave her a softer look, but Charlotte knew she couldn't be fooled.

"Morning," Sherlock returned, nodding in her direction.

Irene walked over and took a seat gingerly on the sofa opposite Sherlock and Charlotte. "I need your help," she stated, staring pointedly at Sherlock.

"You'll have to wait until John returns," Sherlock brushed her off. "We do these things as a—"

"Oh, I don't think you'll want Dr. Watson around for what I have to say," Irene cut him off, a sadistic grin spreading across her face. "In fact, I think it's in your best interest to let me speak before he returns."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to figure her out. "Go on," he invited.

Irene stared back, then her eyes began to drift between the Charlotte and Sherlock. "Something's different about you two," she observed, one corner of her mouth lifting.

Sherlock's eyes darted to Charlotte, while her gaze remained on The Woman.

"Oh, that's delightful," Irene chirped, observing the interaction. She shook her head and gave Charlotte a commending look. "I'm embarrassed to say I underestimated you. You're no beta-female, Charlotte Green. You know your way around a power play."

Sherlock's brow twitched ever so slightly.

"Confused?" Irene asked, catching on right away. "I would be too, if I'd been played for a fool."

"Why don't you just tell us what you want before John comes back in?" Charlotte interrupted.

Irene gave Charlotte a look, peeved that she was cutting her fun short. She turned her attention back to Sherlock. "My texts went unreturned for months. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me, Mr. Holmes. However, I thought that you were worth one more chance.

"Imagine my dismay, when I staked out in the building across the street on the eve of my supposed death, wanting only to see some reaction from you. A single tear, maybe? Perhaps a sad song on the violin? But no. Instead, I saw you stuffing the intern. Bit cliche, don't you think?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, trying to hide his shock. "You didn't have your camera phone," he spoke up finally, attempting to call her bluff. "It was here in the flat the entire time. Therefore, you have no proof."

Irene pouted. "You're right," she replied. "I did, however, have in my possession a camera with a rather powerful zoom lens."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, looking trapped. "I thought you were above blackmail," he responded as coolly as he could manage.

"You know what they say about desperate times," Irene replied, shrugging a shoulder. "Now, you will help me. Or I'll show the good doctor and whoever else cares to see some rather compromising photographs."

"Where are the photos now?" Charlotte asked. "If you didn't have your phone to store them on, where have they gone?"

"The memory card is with a friend for safe keeping," Irene replied. Then, she turned to Sherlock with a positively devilish grin. "Jim Moriarty sends his regards."

Sherlock stood in a flourish, staring at The Woman with menacing eyes.

"Sorry it took so long. We have got to get more glasses in this—" John stopped short as he saw the way Sherlock was standing over Irene. "Have I missed something?" he wondered. He walked over to hand Charlotte her glass of water.

"Sherlock was just telling Ms. Adler that he can't possibly help her," Charlotte responded, taking the glass from John.

"Is that so?" John wondered, staring between Sherlock and The Woman quizzically and still looking a bit lost.

"Is it, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, gazing up at the sleuth levelly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and adjusted his suit jacket, smoothing out the lapels. "Actually, I've changed my mind," he stated resolutely.

"You what?" Charlotte demanded, nearly choking on the sip of water she had just taken. "Sherlock, you can't be—"

"I'm very serious, Charlotte," Sherlock interjected, not daring to look at her. "Ms. Adler drives a very hard bargain."

"What's your case, exactly?" John asked, looking to Irene for an answer.

"There was a man," Irene began. "He was an M.O.D. Official and I knew what he liked. He was also very prone to bragging. He showed me an email and said it would 'save the world.' He didn't know I took a photo of it. He was tied up at the time."

John made a face. "So, you want Sherlock to read you an email?" he clarified.

Irene rolled her eyes. "It's in code. I need him to crack it."

Sherlock withdrew her camera phone from his pocket, handing it to her. "Show me," he beckoned.

Charlotte rose from the couch, placing her half-drunk glass of water on the mantle. "I can't condone this," she stated in disbelief. "These are national secrets you're agreeing to tell." She gave Sherlock a reproachful look before turning to Watson. "I think I will take that cab home, John."

"Of course," John replied, nodding curtly and taking out his own phone.

Charlotte headed for the door, without so much as a glance backward.

* * *

A week went by, and Charlotte didn't return to Baker Street. She had been in sparing contact with John, only to tell him that she would be taking the week to mend her concussion. On their phone call, John shared with her that the code Sherlock cracked for The Woman had undermined a large-scale counter-terrorism project. The news had made Charlotte sick to her stomach, knowing she had played some part in the fiasco.

She had spent the week moping around her flat, rotating between her bed and the couch. She happened to be in the kitchen, making herself some soup, when she heard a knock on her door.

"Mrs. Smithfield, I'm feeling a bit under the weather!" she hollered. "I can't watch June this afternoon!" The knocking continued and Charlotte's brow furrowed. She set down her bowl and walked to the door, opening it to reveal the elder Holmes, looking rather uncomfortable.

Charlotte's eyebrows flew upward, surprised. "Mycroft?" she questioned. "What—? How—?"

"Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you are," Mycroft answered, looking like he had smelled something awful. "Except for the how. I work for the Crown, Charlotte. Locating your residence was as simple as breathing."

"That's one thing explained," Charlotte replied. "But I have so many other questions."

"I hope one of them is 'Would you like to come in?'" Mycroft said. "It is January, after all."

"Oh, right," Charlotte stuttered, hastily stepping aside. "Come in, come in."

Mycroft stepped around her and into the flat. He looked around with the look of distaste he perpetually wore. "Lovely," he stated, not sounding at all like he meant it.

Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Would you like some tea to warm you?"

"No, thank you," Mycroft answered, sniffing. "I'll be here for only a moment."

"Would you like to sit, at least?" Charlotte wondered. His standing was putting her slightly on edge.

Mycroft smiled tightly and took a seat gingerly on Charlotte's couch, looking like it took every ounce of resolve he had to be polite.

Charlotte took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping her distance. "So, what exactly are you doing in my home?" she asked. "I take it you're not here to wish me belated happy holidays?"

"How's your head?" Mycroft asked, cutting through her sarcasm.

Charlotte waited a beat, not sure what his angle was. "Fine," she responded simply.

"Then why aren't you at Baker Street?" Mycroft wondered, arching at eyebrow.

"I took the week off," Charlotte informed him.

"But why?" Mycroft asked, sounding bored.

"It's complicated," Charlotte said shortly.

"It's not," Mycroft snorted. "You won't go back because you're cross with Sherlock. You don't like that he helped Irene Adler."

"Of course I don't," Charlotte replied, snappier than she had planned. "I would expect you, of all people, to understand that."

"Oh, yes, I'm quite furious," Mycroft responded, though he didn't seem it. "My brother handed years worth of work to The Woman on a silver platter. I couldn't be more disappointed."

"You have a strange way of showing it," Charlotte grumbled back.

"Charlotte, do you know why my brother did what he did?" Mycroft asked, looking at her shrewdly.

Charlotte hesitated. "No," she asserted finally. "I mean, I assume it's why Sherlock does anything—to serve himself. He wanted to show off, to impress Irene Adler." She avoided Mycroft's eyes, hoping she had done a convincing enough job.

"Perhaps," Mycroft responded, nodding. He folded his hands in his lap. "Peculiar, though. A few hours after Irene Adler's phone came into my possession, I received a text message from a contact labeled simply 'M.'" He tilted his head a fraction to the side.

"Fascinating," Charlotte replied, feeling a bit hot under the collar.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. "The text message contained a series of rather…explicit images of you and my brother."

Charlotte's eyes widened and her face felt as if it had been engulfed in flame. She turned to gape at Mycroft, stunned into mortified silence.

"Need I say more?" Mycroft inquired.

"Please, don't," Charlotte choked out, unable to meet his eyes.

Mycroft cleared his throat gruffly and shifted in his seat. "I assure you, I only glanced long enough to know exactly what I was looking at—"

"Mycroft!" Charlotte interjected. "Please, spare me the details. I don't need to know what you saw—or how much you saw—or—"

"Understood," Mycroft interrupted her. "You're understood, Charlotte."

Charlotte fell silent, trying desperately to get her face back to a normal temperature and shade.

"The point is, as soon as I saw…what I saw, I knew precisely why my brother had helped Irene Adler," Mycroft stated.

Charlotte nodded slowly, lifting her eyes from her hands up to Mycroft's face. "I don't know what's worse," she admitted quietly. "Trying to impress The Woman or trying to protect his own public image. Either way, it was extremely selfish. It made me sick to my stomach."

Mycroft stared her straight in the face for a moment, his brow creasing in something that looked like disappointment. "Goodness me, I thought you were intelligent," he practically sighed.

"Excuse me?" Charlotte demanded indignantly.

"Do you honestly think my brother did what he did to protect himself?" Mycroft asked. "My dear girl, those photographs wouldn't have touched Sherlock Holmes. You know how the media works these days—the more women a man sleeps with, the more he's idolized. You, on the other hand—"

"I told him not to," Charlotte asserted, her voice sharp. "What do I care for my reputation?"

"Your reputation?" Mycroft interjected, snorting derisively. "Charlotte, everything you've worked for—all those years you struggled to make ends meet, putting yourself through school, your high marks, your internship hours, your very bright future—would have been destroyed. You slept with your boss and that's a cardinal sin by today's media standards. Had my brother allowed those photos to leak, you could have said goodbye to a career as a forensic psychologist."

Charlotte was reduced into humble silence, realizing as Mycroft spoke that he was entirely right. She swallowed hard a few times before she found the ability to speak. "Sherlock doesn't think like that," she uttered, a weak defense.

"Sherlock protects the people he loves," Mycroft stated. He stood and straightened his coat, before he began to walk toward the door. He turned as he reached it. "Go back to Baker Street, Charlotte," he said. "They miss you terribly." With that, he opened the door and stepped back out into the winter's day.

Charlotte sat on her couch, unmoving except to blink. She was still in the midst of processing everything, but with a sudden thought she rose from the couch and ran to her door, throwing it open. "Mycroft!" she called.

The elder Holmes turned to look at her. "Yes?" he asked, as if her outburst were entirely expected.

"The people you work for, have they—? I mean, how many people have seen—?" She blew out a breath. "Do you think other people have recognized us in the photos?"

"Perhaps they could have, if I hadn't deleted them moments after receiving them," Mycroft supposed with a shrug of his shoulder.

Charlotte stared at him in shock. "Mycroft, that's…"

"Illegal. Yes, quite," Mycroft replied. He grimaced up at Charlotte. "Happy Christmas." Once again, he turned and made his leave of her, stooping to climb into the black sedan that would take him back to his side of town.

* * *

"Have you called her?" Sherlock inquired of John, glancing up from his paper the following morning.

John paused, mouth poised to blow on his tea. He set his cup down in its saucer and cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest and appraising Sherlock carefully. "No," he answered honestly. "And I won't. She's asked for the week and we should give her the week."

Sherlock growled out exasperatedly. "John, this place has gone into disrepair without her," he countered. "Her work is stacking up."

John glanced around him at the very normal order of their flat. "You think it's the flat that's gone into disrepair without her, hm?" he wondered, a hint of teasing in his voice. He gave Sherlock a clueless look. "Why are you so concerned, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, you barely notice her when she's here."

"That's not true," Sherlock replied, looking accused.

"Pretty much," John responded. "That is, unless you're wanting to gang up on me." He snapped his fingers. "That's it. You miss being able to outnumber me."

"Please, John, I could outwit you one thousand to one," Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. "All I was trying to say was…"

The door to the flat crept open, interrupting Sherlock's thought. Charlotte stepped inside, holding a bag of pastries—it was Thursday, after all. "What were you trying to say?" she questioned, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

If John hadn't turned his head to look at Charlotte, he would have seen the way Sherlock's eyes lit up when he saw her. "Charlotte," the doctor greeted, sounding surprised. "I didn't expect you in this morning. I thought you were taking the week."

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "I got bored," she replied seamlessly. "Now, what was it that you were trying to say?" She looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock stared back, his head swimming. "I've forgotten," he uttered.

"That's not like you," Charlotte responded. "You're not losing your touch, are you?"

"Never," Sherlock answered, unable to recall any of his bravado.

"Good," Charlotte replied, her lips turning up into a grin. "Now, who wants a pastry?"

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **It's been a while, my people! So sorry for the delay. Life gets busy. I'm very proud of this chapter and excited for you to read it. Let me know what you think of the alterations I made to the plot. Thanks for reading! xx**


	8. The Hounds of Baskerville: Part I

"Oh, I just feel so stupid," Mrs. Hudson lamented, frowning deeply where she sat at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hand.

Charlotte had been upstairs tending to her internship duties when Mrs. Hudson had returned to Baker Street in a huff after a visit to the sandwich shop next door. Apparently, the proprietor she had been romancing had been dishonest about his marital status.

"You have no reason to feel stupid, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte consoled, pouring water from the kettle into two mugs. She set the kettle down and took up the mugs, walking them over and sitting across from the landlady. "He's a duplicitous ass. That can't possibly be your fault."

A smile broke through Mrs. Hudson's stormy demeanor. "I suppose you're right," she responded, not seeming entirely convinced.

Charlotte was on the verge of replying when the doorbell sounded. When Mrs. Hudson moved to get up, she placed a hand on hers. "Stay," she urged gently. "Drink your tea. I'll get it."

She rose from the table and strode to the front door. She opened it to find a rather disheveled-looking man standing on the other side. "Morning," she greeted.

"Yes, good morning," the newcomer stuttered, his eyes shifting around.

"Can I help you?" Charlotte asked, resisting the urge to furrow her brow.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," the man stated.

"Right this way," Charlotte told him, stepping aside to let him in. She closed the door behind him and walked up the stairs, hearing him follow her. She opened the door to the flat and ushered him inside.

"First one of the morning," she announced to Sherlock and Watson. And it couldn't have come soon enough. She didn't know if it was the lack of work or the absence of nicotine that had Sherlock acting absolutely irrational, but his behavior had been driving her and John up the walls.

John stood from his seat to welcome their client. Sherlock had already been standing, pacing the room by the looks of it. "Come in," John welcomed. "Take a seat. Can I get you any tea?"

While the new client was distracted, Charlotte waved Sherlock over. He came to stand close, glancing down at her with a questioning look. "Yes?" he whispered.

"I know you've been having a rough go of it with quitting smoking, but be nice to this one," Charlotte whispered back.

"Nice? I'm always nice," Sherlock scoffed.

"No, you're not," Charlotte countered, raising her eyebrows. "You can be exceptionally un-gentle."

"Are you trying to tell me he's fragile?" Sherlock questioned, looking unmoved.

"Maybe, yes," Charlotte answered. "He seems…troubled. I don't know. Just be nice."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll try my best," he assured her.

"Will you be joining us, Sherlock?" John questioned. "Or are you two going to keep whispering over there?"

Sherlock shot John a look, moving to take his seat.

"I'll get back to Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte said. She nodded and took her leave.

* * *

Half an hour later, just as she and Mrs. Hudson were finishing up their tea, the front door opened and closed. Then, there were footsteps on the stairs, and John and Sherlock burst into the kitchen.

"Charlotte, we're going on a field trip," Sherlock announced.

"We meaning…?" Charlotte questioned, giving him a quizzical look.

"Meaning Sherlock and myself," John cut in. "And you're more than welcome to join us, if you can spare a few days."

"If you'd like me to call your professors personally and tell them you're on special assignment, so be it," Sherlock stated. "But I must insist that you go. It's a rather interesting case—I can almost guarantee you won't regret it."

Charlotte sipped the last of her tea, mulling the proposition over. "Where are we going?" she wondered, looking up at John and Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

"Dartmoor," John informed her.

"The national park?" Charlotte questioned. "If that's the case, I'm there."

"Really?" John inquired, looking surprised. "That easy?"

"Yes," Charlotte answered, nodding. "I've never been outside of London. I'd be kicking myself for not jumping at this chance."

"Never?" John questioned, looking even further baffled. He blinked at her a few times.

"John, do remember I grew up poor with drug addict parents," Charlotte responded, giving him a look. "We didn't exactly take holidays."

"Will this be your first one?" Sherlock questioned, trying not to look as shocked as John did.

"It will be, yes," Charlotte confirmed, nodding curtly. "And I'm going, whether I miss classes or not."

"Well, it's settled then," Sherlock replied. "We'll leave in an hour. Does that give you enough time to go home and collect your things?"

"Er…sure," Charlotte responded. "Does that give you enough time to rent a car? Or am I to believe you have one stowed around here somewhere?"

"Don't get cheeky, Green, or we'll leave you behind," Sherlock quipped.

Charlotte grinned as she stood from the table. "I'm sorry to cut our tea short, Mrs. Hudson," she apologized. "I trust you're in much better shape now?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured her with a smile. "You'd better get going to get all the way back to Barking."

Charlotte nodded like a bobblehead, smiling ear to ear. "You're right," she responded. She scurried out of the room and up the stairs to collect her work things.

Mrs. Hudson watched her go with a somewhat sad smile. "Sometimes I forget that she missed out entirely on a childhood," she mused.

"I do too, clearly," John seconded, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking sheepish.

"Don't worry too much about it, John," Mrs. Hudson urged gently. "I don't think anything can rain on her parade now."

"I think you're right," Sherlock responded, nodding.

"For her sake, don't make this entirely about work," Mrs. Hudson appealed. "Take some time to smell the roses, won't you?"

Sherlock snorted at the turn of phrase, but didn't look opposed to the idea.

"You've got it, Mrs. Hudson," John replied with a smile and an inclination of his head.

* * *

"Dartmoor National Park, fifty kilometers," Charlotte read off the sign as they passed it, trying to contain the excitement in her voice. She had the window down in the back seat, her head tilted partially out of it. The air was crisp, but she loved the feeling of it on her face.

"I swear, Charlotte, you'll catch cold," John teased, smiling amusedly. "You've had that window down since we left London."

"Give me a break. I've never breathed air this clean," Charlotte countered.

Sherlock glanced at her in the rearview mirror, fighting back a smile. "Your lungs have probably never felt so unencumbered," he judged.

"I think you're right," Charlotte chuckled elatedly.

"Just wait until we get out on the moor," Sherlock told her. "I'm told it's beautiful."

"Can't wait," Charlotte chirped.

The fifty kilometers whizzed by them, and soon they arrived at their destination. Sherlock promptly steered their SUV into a turnout.

"What are you doing?" John wondered, looking confused. "Grimpen Village is several kilometers on. We're in the middle of nowhere."

"I'd like to climb up on some of those rocks," Sherlock informed him, pointing at a large cluster of boulders a ways off the road. "Get the lay of the land." He cut the motor and opened his door, stepping out. "Grab the binoculars and the map out of the glove compartment, would you?" he requested, closing his door behind him.

"As if I had a choice," John grumbled under his breath, opening the compartment to retrieve the items.

They all trudged out on the moor together, Sherlock locating the tallest of the boulders and beginning to pick his way up to the top. Charlotte followed him, while John chose to remain aground. The doctor held the map out in front of his face, squinting against the sun. He raised a hand and pointed. "That must be Grimpen Village," he stated, then swiveled to point out something else. "That's Baskerville." He swiveled slightly again, pointing just off to the side of the army base. "Which must make that Dewer's Hollow."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, pointing at some signage in front of Baskerville.

John lifted his binoculars to his eyes. "Looks like a mine field," he responded, letting the binoculars drop to his chest. He looked up at Sherlock, who was a good few meters above him. "All good? Can we go back to the car now?"

"Go ahead," Sherlock replied, waving him away. "We'll be right behind you."

Charlotte stood atop the boulder, staring out at the expanse of greenery before her. She saw John walking back toward the car in the periphery of her vision and felt Sherlock's eyes on her. She snapped out of her stupor and let out a slight chuckle. "I'm going to be useless during this trip," she confessed. "I only caught about half of what you two just said."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up as he watched her gawking over the scenery. "You look different out here," he observed.

This seemed to catch Charlotte's attention and her eyes flicked to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

Sherlock paused to take in her cheeks, rosy from exhilaration and the nip of the cold, her eyes wide with wonder, her hair tousled by the wind. "You look alive," he surmised. "Freer than I've seen you."

Charlotte kept her eyes on the landscape. "Change of backdrop," she said, almost as an answer. "You're used to seeing me surrounded by the grayness of London. That could make anyone look drab."

"That's not what I—"

"I know," Charlotte interjected with a well-meaning smile in Sherlock's direction.

"Perhaps we should get back to the car," Sherlock suggested after a beat.

Charlotte nodded wordlessly and began to make her way down off the boulder.

* * *

They drove for a while longer before they arrived at the village of Grimpen. John located the inn where they would be staying and parked in front. Charlotte popped out of the car immediately. "I'm going to go look around," she announced, trailing off down the lane.

"John, I trust you can handle check in," Sherlock said, looking expectant. "I'll make sure she doesn't get lost."

"Fine, yeah," Watson dismissed with a flick of his hand.

Sherlock strode after Charlotte. "Slow down, Green," he called from behind her.

Charlotte whipped around. "Sorry," she responded, staying put to wait for him. "It's just so incredible, isn't it? I almost can't believe it's real."

Sherlock glanced around him, letting out a small chuckle. "It's…minuscule," he returned.

"It's quaint," Charlotte corrected with a flag of her eyebrows. "And quaint is…amazing. I love London, but this…" She gestured around. "I've never been somewhere so tranquil."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, noticing once again how weightless she seemed outside the confines of London. "Well, go on then," he invited, waving a hand ahead of him. "I'll try to keep up."

It took only a matter of minutes to view the entirety of the village, but Charlotte found that she was entirely satisfied. She and Sherlock were looping back to the inn to meet John when he caught her by the crook of her elbow. She looked over her shoulder at him in question. "What is it?" she asked.

"Listen," Sherlock urged, pointing to a nearby grouping of tourists. They were all gathered around a guide, who was warning them against the dangers of the moor at night. "I think we've found our first lead," he murmured to her. Charlotte nodded, as if conspiring.

The group began to break up, dismissed. The guide separated from them and began walking toward a nearby picnic table, passing Charlotte and Sherlock in the process. Charlotte took notice as his eyes wandered over her, trying not to stay too long. "I've got this one," she whispered to Sherlock as the guide passed out of earshot. "Follow my lead." She reached down and clasped Sherlock's hand in hers.

"What're you—?"

But she was already pulling him across the courtyard, making her way over to where the guide was seating himself. "Hi," she greeted, coming to stand in front of him.

The guide looked up at her from where he sat, his eyes darting to their hands and back to her face. "Can I help you?" he asked, clearly disappointed.

"I'm hoping you can settle a dispute," Charlotte responded, smiling appealingly. "My boyfriend thinks this hound business is all a bunch of tosh. But I heard you say earlier that you can prove it's not."

"Boyfriend, eh?" the guide questioned, sneering up at Sherlock. "Sure he's not your grandad?"

"Excuse you," Charlotte snipped back, shocked at his brazenness.

"Come on, darling," Sherlock scoffed. "You've got your answer. He clearly can't prove anything." He began to turn away, while Charlotte looked reluctantly at the guide.

"Well, hang on," the guide spoke up, clearing his throat. "You didn't even give me the chance."

Sherlock paused and glanced back at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

"I knew it," Charlotte said, smiling interestedly. She let go of Sherlock's hand and took a seat at the bench opposite the guide. "Go on."

Charlotte sat in rapt attention, listening as the guide gave his testimony. Sherlock was even bothered to sit, letting out a beleaguered sigh as he did so. When he finished, Charlotte turned to Sherlock with a triumphant look. "Well, there you have it," she proclaimed. She glanced back at the guide with an alluring smile. "Thanks for your help."

"Glad I could be of service," the guide replied with an ingratiating smile and the nerve to wink. He checked his watch. "I'd love to stay, but I'm running late for the next tour. Maybe I'll catch you at the pub later?"

"Maybe," Charlotte flirted, batting her eyelashes once for good measure.

As the guide jogged off toward the moor, Sherlock scowled. "What a twit," he grumbled.

"Don't be the jealous boyfriend," Charlotte teased, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow and giggling.

"How can I not be?" Sherlock questioned incredulously. "He calls me archaic and then attempts to flirt my girlfriend out from under me? Thinks he's slick doing it too, I reckon."

Charlotte was practically rolling in laughter.

"And you nearly let him do it," Sherlock added, jestingly accusatorial.

"Oh, please," Charlotte countered, rolling her eyes. "If you catch me gazing into his eyes over pints later, you have full permission to feed me to the hound."

"Noted," Sherlock responded, nodding. "Of course, you know you have much better options than that buffoon."

Charlotte caught his eye. "Do I?" she questioned with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock's cheeks flushed. "Well, I—"

"What is so funny over here?" John wondered, walking up with three wrapped sandwiches clutched between his hands. "I saw you busting up." He took a seat and set down his loot, looking at them both expectantly.

Charlotte gladly accepted one of the sandwiches and began to unwrap it. "Sherlock and I were just interviewing the local talent," she answered with a snigger. "Tour guide. Seemed to know a lot about the hound."

"Mm," John hummed in response, taking up one of the other sandwiches and undoing the wrappings.

"How did check in go?" Sherlock asked. "Took you long enough."

John let out a frustrated grunt. "No matter how much I tried, I could only get us two rooms. One single room and one double."

"Don't tell me we're sharing a room," Sherlock groaned, looking none too thrilled.

"Unless you'd like to bunk with Charlotte," John joked. "Though, I hardly think that would be appropriate."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock snapped. He bit into his sandwich.

"You mean I get my own room?" Charlotte questioned, looking like she'd won the lottery.

John nodded, cracking a smile. "It shakes out that way, yeah," he answered. "Only fitting for your first holiday."

Charlotte stared down at her sandwich for a moment, contemplating. Then, she lifted her eyes to look between John and Sherlock. "Will you let me pay some? Offset the costs?"

"Certainly not," John replied, gentle yet firm in his decision. "It's a work expense."

"We asked you along," Sherlock reminded her. "We don't expect you to pay your way. Not this time, at least." He cracked a smile at her.

Charlotte returned Sherlock's smile, though still a bit unsure. "Well, I'll pay for dinner some night, then," she told them.

"An excellent compromise," Sherlock consented, quieting to chew his bite of sandwich.

They all ate in silence for a few moments. "So, what next?" Charlotte asked curiously, looking between Sherlock and John.

"I thought we'd go and have a look around Baskerville," Sherlock answered.

"How do you intend to get into a high security army base?" John asked, looking skeptical.

"I have my ways," Sherlock replied simply.

"Something tells me it has something to do with Mycroft," Charlotte mused, eyeing Sherlock knowingly. "I'll stick around here and interview as many locals as I can. An ex-army doctor and a Mycroft Holmes imposter may slide, but there's no way they'll believe I have any business at Baskerville."

Sherlock nodded his agreement. "We shouldn't be long," he said. "I just want to do some poking around."

* * *

As it turned out, Sherlock and John took longer than Charlotte anticipated. She exhausted all possible interview subjects, finding that most knew little or nothing about Baskerville, but many had their theories about what really went on behind its walls. What she found most impressive was how rampant hound-lore ran in the tiny village. Each person she talked to had something to say about the nominal monster on the moor.

Eventually, she grew tired of her questioning and decided to wait for John and Sherlock in the cafe attached to their inn. She had schoolwork that she needed to keep up while she was absent, so she ordered a coffee and made camp at a small table by the window to do some reading.

When Sherlock and John arrived sometime later, Charlotte was seated across from none other than the tour guide from that afternoon. Shortly after she had taken a seat and begun her schoolwork, he had descended upon the cafe, making a beeline for her table in particular. He had been attempting to chat her up for the past hour, much to her annoyance.

"Sherlock, John," Charlotte called out to them, waving them down. Her brow furrowed slightly as she realized they were joined by Henry, the man who had come to Baker Street seeking Sherlock's help with the hound.

"Charlotte," John greeted, coming to stand beside her table. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Though, I see you've had company." He fought back a teasing smile.

Charlotte looked less than impressed.

"So sorry, darling," Sherlock added, coming to place a hand on her shoulder. "We got caught up." He smiled tightly at the tour guide, while the younger man sat back in his chair with a smug look. John, meanwhile, looked quite confused about the entire exchange, his brow bowed as he looked between Sherlock and Charlotte and back again.

"Quite all right," Charlotte replied, placing a hand over Sherlock's hand on her shoulder and glancing up at him. "Fletcher has kept me quite entertained. You should hear his stories." She dug her fingernails into Sherlock's hand ever so slightly.

"My apologies for robbing you of what I'm sure was riveting conversation," Sherlock sniffed. "But we must be going."

"Very well," Charlotte responded, packing up her things. She stood from her chair and Sherlock held out her coat for her. "Thank you for the lovely chat, Fletcher," she said as she shrugged into the garment. "I'll see you around."

"I hope so," Fletcher replied with a flirtatious bob of his eyebrows.

Charlotte resisted the urge to make a face as she smiled back at him. She shouldered her backpack and walked straight for the door, stepping out into the dusk. Sherlock, Watson, and Henry followed close behind. "What took so long?" she demanded as soon as she was sure they were out of earshot.

"Hang on," John said, putting a finger up and pointing between Sherlock and Charlotte. "I will answer that as soon as you tell me what I just saw in there."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was a ruse, John," he explained. "One we used when we spoke to Fletcher earlier to get him to tell us more about the hound."

"Didn't think we would have to keep it up," Charlotte admitted with a bob of her eyebrows.

"Really?" Sherlock questioned, looking unbelieving.

"Yes, really," Charlotte responded. "I didn't expect him to seek me out."

"You should have asked me this afternoon, I would have told you exactly that. How many opportunities do you think that lad has to talk to women who don't already know what a wanker he is?" Sherlock wondered.

"I don't know, Sherlock," Charlotte replied, exasperated.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?" John cut in, eyebrows raised as he looked at the two of them. "The issue at hand, please."

"Right," Charlotte said, shaking her head slightly as she regained some semblance of the plot. She turned to look at Henry. "Good to see you again," she told him.

"And you," Henry replied, with same cagey expression he always seemed to wear.

"No offense to you, Henry, but what exactly is he doing here?" Charlotte questioned, looking to John and Sherlock for answer.

"We're going to Dewer's Hollow," Sherlock explained evenly.

"Now?" Charlotte questioned. "It's going to be dark soon."

"Precisely," Sherlock responded.

Charlotte glanced at Henry. "Are you sure you're ready for something like this?" she asked him uncertainly.

Henry nodded, though still looked apprehensive. "Mr. Holmes is right. I need to go back and see once and for all what it was that killed my father those years ago—I need to face it."

"If you say so," Charlotte responded, pulling her jacket more tightly around herself.

 **AUTHOR'S** **NOTE:** **Hello, readers! I'm so happy to be getting the chance to sit down and write again! I've been in the throes of moving for the past couple months and it's been hectic, to say the least. This chapter is certainly less satisfying than the previous, but everything needs a foundation ;) Enjoy! xx (P.S. I'm already writing the next chapter, and can't wait to share it with you!)**


	9. The Hounds of Baskerville: Part II

Darkness closed in as the four of them made their way across the moor, nearing Dewer's Hollow. By the time they reached the tree line, the sun had crept below the horizon.

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at the openness of the moor behind her, seeing boulders silhouetted in the distance against the last vestiges of light. As she looked, she noticed a light blinking atop a far off hill. "John," she said, getting his attention.

The doctor stopped his walking and turned to her. "Yeah?" he asked, looking at her curiously.

"Do you see that?" Charlotte asked, pointing off toward the blinking light.

John's brow furrowed. "Strange," he commented to himself.

"Is it Morse?" Charlotte wondered aloud.

John was already withdrawing a writing pad from his coat pocket, beginning to scribble as he watched the lights.

"I should have known you could read code," Charlotte said with a slight chuckle.

"Well, don't count your chickens," John said, squinting down at what he had gathered from the light display. "U-M-Q-R-A."

"Umqra?" Charlotte questioned. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Watson shrugged. "Nothing at all," he admitted. "But it might mean something to Sherlock—or Henry, for that matter."

"Speaking of which…" Charlotte staring into the inky darkness of the woods and realizing she and John had been left behind.

"Well, at least there's an even number," John responded with a shrug. "Buddy system."

"Buddy system," Charlotte echoed with a grin, turning and walking into the trees.

The two of them were soon engulfed in utter darkness. John had come prepared with a flashlight, but Charlotte had only her phone to light the way. They stumbled through the underbrush, calling out to Sherlock and Henry, while simultaneously staying on alert for any suspicious movement or sound.

"They must be far ahead now," John observed after a while when they hadn't heard anything back. "I can't hear them at all."

"It's like the trees swallow up all the sound," Charlotte stated, glancing at the ghostly trunks

surrounding them. She shivered slightly. "This place is creepy, I'll give it that."

"Shh," John hissed, coming to a dead stop ahead of her. He put out a hand to halt her, his head snapping from side to side.

The hair on the back of Charlotte's neck stood up as she heard what John had—a nearby rustling of brush. She scarcely dared to breathe, her eyes shifting around.

* * *

Somewhere ahead of them, Sherlock and Henry had arrived in the heart of the hollow—a deep, circular depression in the forest floor at least a dozen meters across. As he and Henry stood at its mouth and looked down into its eerie depths, Sherlock began to get a creeping feeling. He began to wonder where Charlotte and John had gotten to, not having thought much of their separation until that moment. He rolled his shoulders, shaking it off. "Let's go," he proposed, walking along its edge as he sought a path to the bottom. Henry followed closely behind him.

On their way into the pit, Sherlock heard movement in the bushes that lined it. His head snapped up to scan the area and his foot caught on a root, tripping him up. He stumbled down the rest of the way into the hollow, coming to a halt at the bottom, his heart thudding in his chest. His eyes darted around frantically, wondering once again where the sound had come from. It seemed to be all around him, the rustling turned to a deep growling. His head swiveled, his breathing uneven.

"There!" Henry cried, his voice quaking.

Sherlock snapped around to see. There, standing at the gaping mouth of the hollow was a hulking figure, cloaked in darkness. It stood on four massive legs, fangs bared and menacing. Its eyes glinted, even in the darkness, and came to rest on Sherlock. The sleuth's breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat hammering against his ribcage.

As he watched, the beast sunk back into the bushes and disappeared from his view. Moments later, a woman's scream pierced the stillness of the hollow. "Charlotte," Sherlock muttered, his voice unsteady.

Henry looked stricken. "Do you think…?" The two of them exchanged a horrified glance and then they were scrambling up the embankment to get out of the hollow.

"John! Charlotte!" Sherlock yelled, running on trembling legs as soon as he was on flat ground once again.

"Sherlock! We're over here!" John called back as he and Charlotte hurried through the woods toward the sound of his voice.

They almost collided with one another in a small clearing just shy of the heart of the hollow. Sherlock went immediately to Charlotte, taking her by the shoulders and looking into her face. "Are you all right?" he asked, shaking her slightly.

Charlotte stared back, wide-eyed. "Er, yeah," she answered. "I'm fine, Sherlock." She laughed awkwardly, looking into his fearful eyes with concern. "I promise."

"We heard a scream," Henry spluttered, staring at Charlotte expectantly. "We thought it was—"

"I don't know what I heard," Sherlock interjected sharply. He straightened up, releasing his grip on Charlotte. He adjusted his coat, clearing his throat. "Charlotte's clearly fine. It could have been anything."

"What are you talking about?" Henry demanded. "We heard a woman scream. If it wasn't Charlotte, it was someone else," he insisted. "Someone could be seriously hurt."

John appraised the two of them inquisitively. "Hurt?" he questioned. "By what, exactly?"

"The hound," Henry answered, quaking at the mere word. "We saw it. In the hollow. It was—"

"I didn't see anything," Sherlock insisted.

Henry gawked at Sherlock, betrayed. "What are you talking about?" he questioned. "It was there. We saw it. It was there!"

"All right, let's just—"

"It was there, Doctor Watson, I swear!" Henry bellowed. He jabbed a finger at Sherlock. "He saw it too, I know he did!"

Sherlock gazed back at Henry, seemingly unmoved. "It was dark," he stated, brushing Henry's appeal off completely. "We heard something moving about, but it could have been a rabbit, for all we know."

Henry glared at Sherlock, looking ready to contradict him.

"I think it's time we get out of these woods," Charlotte spoke up before he could. Her voice was as gentle as she could manage. "This place gives me the creeps. I think we'll all be able to think more clearly back at the Inn."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly out here," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "But, I agree there's no use standing around in the dark." He turned and walked briskly back the way they had all come.

John turned to offer Henry some words of consolation and Charlotte took it upon herself to catch up to Sherlock. She had to step rapidly to keep pace, but managed to walk by his side. Charlotte wasn't sure whether he needed consoling as Henry did, or if he would want to talk about the case as always, so she opted to walk in complete silence.

"It sounded like a scream," Sherlock interjected into the quiet. "I realize now that it wasn't, but in the moment…"

"I was saying to John that the trees seemed to muffle sounds. Could have warped them, too," Charlotte replied levelly. She bit the side of her cheek, not having the heart to tell him that she hadn't heard anything resembling a scream—in fact, she hadn't heard anything at all until Sherlock began calling for her and John.

"Anything could have happened out there in the dark. You could have fallen in a ditch, or run across a wild animal—an existent one, that is." He laughed, a bit too tightly. "And was I to believe John could fight it off?"

"An ex-army man? Certainly not," Charlotte snorted, glancing sideways at Sherlock.

The sleuth cracked a smile, but it was forced and fleeting.

Charlotte waited a beat before speaking again. "So, you really didn't see anything?"

Sherlock shook his head adamantly. "No," he answered. "I didn't see anything."

"Okay," Charlotte responded, nodding as she turned to face forward once again.

"You believe me?" Sherlock questioned, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Of course I believe you," Charlotte replied easily. "You're one of the most trustworthy people I know. If you say you didn't see anything, you didn't see anything." She shrugged a shoulder and they fell into silence for the duration of their walk back to the Inn.

Sherlock walked straight inside, but Charlotte waited up outside for John and Henry. "I think I'll drive him back to his place," John told her as they approached. "I'll make sure he's settled and then head back here."

Charlotte nodded. "Need any help?" she wondered.

John shook his head. "I don't think so," he answered. "Just…keep an eye on Sherlock, will you?"

"I was planning on it," Charlotte replied, nodding.

"See you later on," John said, waving as he and Henry stepped toward the car.

Charlotte found Sherlock seated in an armchair in front of the fire, staring intently into the flames. He clutched a glass of something in his hand.

"Something for the nerves?" she questioned, taking a seat in the chair beside his.

"I got you one, too," Sherlock told her. "It's scotch. Dunno if you drink it."

"Gladly," Charlotte responded, plucking hers off the side table and taking a sip. She made a face. "Strong."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted in reply. He brought the glass to his lips.

"Sherlock, you're shaking," Charlotte said in concern, noticing the violent tremor in his hand.

"It appears as though I am," Sherlock responded, taking a long pull on his scotch and keeping his eyes on the fire.

Charlotte heard the tone in his reply and thought better than to push the issue. She stared into the hearth for a few moments before turning to look at Sherlock. "So, what do you think we'll do tomorrow?" she questioned. "Try to get answers from Baskerville? Go back to Dewer's Hollow to investigate?"

"Are you intent on completely ignoring the fact that I'm scared out of my wits?" Sherlock wondered, swiveling his head to look at her pointedly.

Charlotte was stopped in her tracks, mouth still slightly ajar in mid-speech. She regained her composure after only a second. "I thought you were the one intent on ignoring it," she said, raising her eyebrows as she took another tentative sip of her scotch.

"You lied to me earlier," Sherlock accused. "When you said you believed me."

"Well, you lied to me first," Charlotte reminded him, looking wholly unfazed.

"How do you know?" Sherlock countered.

Charlotte snorted, shaking her head. "Because I can read people, Sherlock. I learned from the best."

Sherlock simply grunted and turned back to look at the fire.

A few tense moments passed between the two of them while Charlotte tried to figure out what to say. After evaluating all her options, she decided to go with the direct approach. "I know what you saw out there has you terrified," she said, her voice softening. She felt the urge to reach across and place a hand on his knee, but denied it. Instead, she sat forward in her armchair, looking intently at him. "And I know being terrified terrifies you."

Sherlock remained silent, his jaw clenching and unclenching in an effort to keep his composure. Eventually, he spoke. "I've always been able to keep emotions separate," Sherlock uttered, not looking at her still. "I've been able to stay above it all and think rationally, but today…" He shook his head. "Something happened to me out there. I feel betrayed by my own body." He held up his glass to show her how his hand still shook.

"You saw something that scared you," Charlotte stated compassionately. "We all get scared sometime or another."

"Not me," Sherlock insisted adamantly. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Of course there isn't," Charlotte insisted. "Feeling fear doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. It's entirely—"

"If you say human, I'll hurl this glass into the fire and you along with it," Sherlock snapped, turning to look at her with a vexed expression.

Charlotte straightened up in her seat, putting distance between them. "I think I had better get up to my room," she murmured, setting her glass down on the table. "I could use a shower—I'm chilled to the bone from being out on the moor." She stood.

"Charlotte…" Sherlock said, looking instantly regretful.

"I think you need some time alone with your thoughts," Charlotte said in reply, staring down at him. "You clearly don't need me here, telling you things you don't want to hear." She flashed a tight smile. "Good night, Sherlock," she concluded before striding away.

* * *

Charlotte stood in front of the bathroom mirror after a much-needed shower. The events of the evening seemed to have coated her body with a thin layer of grime—she was more than happy to be rid of it. The hot water brought her back to life as she washed away the trip to Dewer's Hollow and Sherlock's behavior in the pub on top of it.

However, no matter how she tried to distract herself from them, the thoughts of Sherlock's erratic behavior persisted in her mind. It was strange for her to admit to herself that she was worried about him, that it troubled her to see him so troubled. Since she had left him in the pub, she hadn't been able to silence the part of her that wanted to make sure he was okay, even given his insensitivity toward her before she left. She stared at herself through the mirror, chewing on a thumbnail absentmindedly as she rolled these thoughts around.

A sharp knock came at the door and she nearly jumped out of her skin. "Coming," she stammered, reaching quickly for her bathrobe on the back of the door. She wrapped it around herself as she peered through the peephole. With a small sigh of relief, she stepped back to open the door.

"Sherlock," she greeted with a tone of surprise. Her head tilted to one side as she took in his disheveled appearance, the cagey look in his eye. "I was just thinking about you."

"Were you?" Sherlock questioned, seeming distracted. His eyes shifted up and down the hallway.

"I was just wondering if everything was okay," Charlotte responded. She paused for a moment, looking up into his face. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock met Charlotte's eyes, locking in. "I need you," he breathed out, advancing into her room. He grabbed her around the waist with one arm and pushed the door shut behind him with the other.

Charlotte gasped in surprise as he pinned her to the wall, his mouth on hers before she could register what was happening. "Sherlock," she said, her voice muffled on his lips. When he continued to kiss her, she shoved him away from her. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed, staring at him with a combination of hurt and bewilderment.

Sherlock stared back in shock for a few impregnated seconds, panting slightly. Then, after a beat, his expression changed to pained recognition. His hands trembled violently as he ran them through his hair. "I-I…" He swallowed hard. "I don't know what's gotten into me. I can't stop feeling this way." He sniffed and blinked rapidly.

"Feeling what way?" Charlotte demanded, brow furrowed. When he didn't answer, she spoke again uneasily. "Sherlock, you're worrying me."

"I'm-I'm…terrified," Sherlock admitted. "I feel like I've lost all control." He glanced up at her, the same pained look passing over his features. "And now I've scared you, haven't I?"

"Scared, no," Charlotte replied honestly. "Upset, yes." She pulled her robe more tightly around herself and turned her cheek to him, jaw set.

"Charlotte, I'm deeply sorry," Sherlock apologized earnestly. "I'm so sorry." He swallowed thickly. "I came up here to apologize for my earlier behavior and then I…"

"Completely lost the plot?" Charlotte scoffed. "I'll say. Jumping me is a far cry from an apology."

"I never meant to do it," Sherlock assured her. "I just saw you and thought—"

"That you would come in here and distract yourself for a while?" Charlotte interjected, an edge to her voice.

"No," Sherlock objected firmly. "No, that's not what I—"

"That's not how this goes," Charlotte told him, turning and looking him dead in the eye. Then, she faltered and she found her gaze on the carpet beneath her feet. "I refuse to be used, Sherlock."

"I could never use you," Sherlock breathed, so earnestly that it caught Charlotte's attention. She lifted her eyes to his and Sherlock felt encouraged to continue.

"I'd never felt like I did on Christmas Eve—and I haven't since." He let out a shaky breath, willing his nerves to be still long enough for him to get the words out. "Being with you makes me feel so many things, Charlotte. Above all, you have the innate ability to make me feel safe," he admitted to her in a vulnerable tone.

Charlotte absorbed his words, gazing back at him in silence for a while before responding. "Is it just sex with me that makes you feel safe?" she wondered openly.

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he confirmed. "I said it to you Christmas morning, but I want to say it again—I trust you. I trust your opinion and I trust your intellect. I trusted you to show me the way through something that was entirely foreign to me that night and I don't believe either of us came out worser for the wear. Now it's simply being near you that makes me feel safe."

Charlotte lips twitched up ever so slightly, but then she resumed a more serious look. "I know the fear you felt tonight is foreign to you, Sherlock," she said. "And I tried to be there for you, but you pushed me away."

"I know," Sherlock owned up. "I shouldn't have. I thought what I needed was to deny those feelings, but what I truly need is to feel safe. I need you. And the closest I've ever felt to you was when we slept together. Perhaps I should have tried to tell you that, instead of forcing myself on you." He swallowed hard, feeling another wave of fear wash over him as Charlotte looked impassive. "My behavior toward you tonight has been inexcusable."

"It has been," Charlotte agreed, nodding. She waited sometime, having to process what all had been said. "Lucky for you, I happen to be extremely forgiving."

Sherlock's eyes darted up to her face, looking surprised.

"I didn't think I would ever see that look on Sherlock Holmes' face," Charlotte said with the whisper of a chuckle. "I thought you knew the outcome of everything."

"Not when I deemed the outcome impossible," Sherlock breathed out in a gust.

"Sherlock, when you're in your right mind, I know you wouldn't hurt me," Charlotte told him, giving him a serious look. "And I've heard it said that once you've ruled out all other options, what remains, no matter how improbable, must be true," she added, looking rather please with herself.

"Now, where might you have heard that brilliant tidbit?" Sherlock mused, daring to smile.

"Stop talking before I change my mind," Charlotte told him with a reluctant-seeming grin.

Sherlock stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on the side of Charlotte's face. "I don't know if I've ever met someone so forgiving," he murmured, looking down into her eyes with gratitude.

Charlotte felt the way his hand trembled where it rested on her cheek, could practically smell the fear radiating off him. She moved in and wrapped her arms fully around him, reaching up to place one on the back of his head. "Sherlock, I never doubt that you mean well," she uttered to him.

Sherlock wrapped himself around Charlotte, letting out a shaky sigh as he stooped to bury his face in her hair.

Charlotte held him until his breathing grew steadier. "Kick off your shoes," she invited in a whisper over his shoulder. She released him and nodded over toward the bed, before walking over and crawling onto the mattress.

Sherlock sat down beside her, reaching down to untie and then remove his shoes. He carefully placed them next to the bedside table and then sat upright and still as a stone.

"You look confused," Charlotte appraised.

"I am confused," Sherlock replied with a grimace.

"Remember how nice it was to sleep beside each other?" She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.

Sherlock nodded.

"So, lay back," Charlotte beckoned, patting the bed beside her. "I mean, if you want…"

Sherlock smiled as realization washed over him. He began to slowly remove his coat, tossing it to fall in a heap next to his shoes. Then, he laid down flat on his back beside her, clasping his hands over his stomach.

"Do you always sleep in your belt and trousers?" Charlotte wondered, arching an eyebrow and holding back a smile.

Sherlock chuckled. "I-I don't want to seem too…"

"Suggestive?" Charlotte questioned. She sat up onto her knees and leaned over to reach for Sherlock's belt buckle, beginning to undo it.

"Yes, I do believe suggestive was the word I was looking for," Sherlock snorted out breathlessly, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to think too hard about what Charlotte was doing.

Charlotte had already unbuttoned Sherlock's pants and was pulling them down his thighs. She slid them down his legs to remove them completely, dragging them over his feet and then throwing them aside. "Better?" she asked.

"Almost," Sherlock replied. He extended an arm and gently patted the bed beside him.

Charlotte lay back down and curled up beside Sherlock, draping an arm over his torso. Sherlock wrapped his extended arm around her, pulling her half onto his chest. He sighed out gustily and Charlotte could feel his muscles relaxing all around her.

They lay there in silence, simply basking in the other's presence. After a while, Sherlock gingerly stroked Charlotte's hair and then bowed his head to kiss the top of her head. The shake had gone out of him almost entirely, but Charlotte felt his hands tremble marginally as he touched her hair. "You okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes," Sherlock responded genuinely. "Better than okay, actually." His hand meandered its way down through her hair and onto her back, stroking her spine over the course fabric of her hotel robe.

Though she knew it was an absentminded touch, Charlotte felt goosebumps erupt over her entire body. She sucked in a slow breath through her nose, trying to settle herself.

"Are you holding your breath?" Sherlock asked curiously after a few moments.

Charlotte realized she had been. She blew the air out through her mouth and sat up, placing her forearms on Sherlock's chest. She stared down at him, her brow dipping ever so slightly.

"What is it, Charlotte?" Sherlock asked, staring back at her in confusion.

Charlotte spoke no words, but instead leaned down and kissed Sherlock fully on the mouth. Sherlock responded instantly, moving his hand to rest on the back of her head as he kissed her with quiet fervor. He rolled onto his side so that the two of them faced each other, wrapping their arms around each other. They kissed each other for a while, growing in intensity as time elapsed.

When Charlotte moved down to kiss Sherlock's neck, he caught his breath and then spoke. "Charlotte," he panted, trying to get her attention. "Charlotte."

Charlotte lifted her head to look at him, her cheeks flushed. "What is it?" she asked.

"I thought…I thought you didn't want this," Sherlock said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't like the thought that I forced this on you."

Charlotte lips twitched upward. "Does this seemed forced to you?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Well, no, but—"

"Do you still want to have sex with me?" Charlotte wondered.

"Absolutely," Sherlock answered readily. "More than anything. But I want you to know you're not merely a distraction for me."

"You've proved that," Charlotte told him. "I know sex with me means something to you."

"Not just sex with you," Sherlock insisted, taking her face in his hands. He looked into her eyes with conviction. "You mean something to me."

Charlotte stared back at Sherlock, slightly concussed. Then, she dove back into kissing him with increased desire, her lips working feverishly on his. Sherlock tucked a hand behind her head and kissed her back, his other hand untying her robe and yanking it open. He rolled them over, taking the lead in kissing her neck and all the way down her body. Their clothes were removed in haste and then they were truly together, writhing and panting and exclaiming their pleasure into pillows in an effort not to disturb the other guests at the Inn.

* * *

When morning light streamed in through the thin curtains the following morning, Charlotte opened her eyes with reluctance. They had spent the better part of the night wide awake—making up for all the time they had wasted since Christmas Eve. The two of them had been inexhaustible, only keeping their hands and lips off each other long enough to catch their breaths in between bouts. Sherlock, despite his weeks of stagnancy, had brought Charlotte to climax more than once, which only added to her exhaustion that morning.

Sherlock stirred beside her and eventually his eyes opened too. "Morning," he breathed out, looking just about as spry as Charlotte did.

"Morning," Charlotte echoed, smiling at what must have been the sight of them.

"How did you sleep?" Sherlock asked.

"Like a rock," Charlotte replied. "For all of three hours."

Sherlock chuckled and propped himself up on an elbow to kiss her. His free hand caressed the side of her face and down her neck, running down the length of her body. His lips broke free from hers and he kissed along her jaw before venturing lower.

"You're insatiable," Charlotte joked as Sherlock kissed south of her bellybutton, pulling the covers back to look down at him. "You do realize that we blew through my travel pack of condoms, don't you?"

Sherlock simply smirked. "Good thing we don't need a condom for what I'm about to do."

Charlotte let the covers go and lay back, tucking a hand behind her head. She let out a soft sigh as she felt Sherlock's tongue between her legs, closing her eyes.

"Charlotte!" John called. The only thing louder than his voice was his knocking on her door.

Sherlock sat up as if electrified, the blankets falling off him. He gaped at Charlotte with wide eyes, barely daring to breath. Charlotte started, propping herself on her elbows as she stared back at him, her eyes periodically darting to the door and then back.

"Charlotte, are you in there?" John requested, his voice still at volume.

"Yes, yes I did," Charlotte responded, her speech rushed and her tone a bit too high. "Yeah, I'm here. Just—just give me a sec."

She scrambled out of bed and picked her robe up off the floor, wrapping it around herself and tying it hastily. She kicked Sherlock's shoes and clothes under the bed, obscuring them from sight. "Bathroom," she hissed to Sherlock, barely making a sound. She jabbed a finger toward the door.

Sherlock nodded and hopped out of bed, scurrying on light feet over to the bathroom. He carefully shut himself in.

Charlotte hurried over to her hotel room door and opened it just a crack, pulling her robe to cover as much skin as she could. "Sorry," she greeted John. "I was just about to jump in the shower. Where's the fire?"

"Sherlock never came in last night," John told her, clearly concerned. "Bed's not slept in. I've just been down to the cafe and no one's seen him." He let out an exasperated breath. "We got into it a bit at the pub last night, so I called it an early night. Went up to the room and fell asleep. I thought he would come in later, but…" He rubbed at his chin. "I dunno, Charlotte. He was scared stiff last night. He wasn't himself."

Charlotte's brow furrowed, having forgotten that he and John were sharing a room. She chewed the inside of her cheek. "You know how Sherlock gets," she reasoned. "He's had a lot of sleepless nights. He's probably just been…out, you know? Walking the moor or something."

"That's what I'm afraid of," John said. "I don't know what's out there, but whatever it is, it isn't good for him."

"John," Charlotte said, her tone level. She could tell his nerves were getting the best of him. "Go down to the cafe for a cup of tea, all right? I'll have a shower and then come down to meet you. We can canvas the town, if you want."

John blew out a harrowed breath. "Okay," he replied. "You're right. I just need to keep my head on."

Charlotte nodded. "This is just Sherlock," she reasoned. "We'll find him. Or he may find us first, knowing him."

John snorted stiffly. "Would be just like him, wouldn't it?" He sighed again and scratched at his forehead. "I heard you two had a run-in last night."

"Wh-what?" Charlotte questioned, on the edge of mortification.

"At the pub," John clarified. "Before our row, he told me he'd been short with you. You okay?"

Charlotte swallowed past a dry throat and nodded. "Yeah, fine," she answered. "I've…I've worked it out. His being scared isn't an excuse, but…"

"It sort of is?" John finished her thought with a knowing half-smile. "All ruffled feathers aside, I guess I'm worried about him."

Charlotte nodded understandingly and offered a comforting smile. "Twenty minutes," she promised. "Cup of tea, remember? Calm your nerves."

John nodded, his smile dissolving into a hard line. "Right," he said. "See you soon."

Charlotte closed the door until she heard it click, listening to the sound of John's footsteps fading away. She leaned her back against the door with a sigh, her heart racing still from the shock. The bathroom door opened slowly and Sherlock emerged, looking a bit like a child in trouble. He had made the effort of wrapping a towel around his waist, in the unfortunate event that John would have found him out.

"I hadn't known you and John were at odds," Charlotte spoke, lifting her eyebrows in a slightly accusing way.

"Would it have made a difference?" Sherlock questioned, tucking his chin humbly.

Charlotte let out a soft snort, shaking her head. "No," she admitted to him and herself. "I'd honestly forgotten you were sharing a room. I didn't expect him to come looking."

Sherlock walked up to her and tucked his hands around her waist, gazing down at her. "You're good for him," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her forehead. As he pulled away, he could see Charlotte's brow furrowed.

"Not in the same way I'm good for you, I hope," she said, giving him a skeptical look.

Sherlock laughed. "I just mean you keep him from catastrophizing nearly everything," he responded. "You have a calming presence."

"I think when the smartest person in the room says something, you can't help but find it reasonable," Charlotte replied, batting her eyelashes up at him.

"Quite right," Sherlock replied, holding his face close. "Although, you would think the smartest person in the room would put her robe on right side out." He reached behind her head and played with her tag, narrowing the gap between them until his lips were on hers, kissing her softly.

Charlotte kissed him back for a moment before pulling away. "I have to shower," she stated.

"Grand. I could use one too," Sherlock replied, grinning. He leaned back toward her.

"No," Charlotte asserted, straight-arming him gently. "You need to go to your own room. I want you to think about what it is you're going to say to John—and you certainly won't be doing that if I'm naked in front of you."

"What I'm going to say?" Sherlock queried, clearly protesting. "I'll make up some story. You practically did it for me—couldn't sleep, walked the moor—"

"I mean in way of an apology," Charlotte interjected.

"An apology?"

"Yes, Sherlock, an apology," Charlotte insisted. "For whatever you said to him last night. You were able to apologize to me, so suck it up and say it to John."

Sherlock made a noise of disinterest. "John knows I'm sorry," he reasoned. "He knows this is how I am."

"Well, then he'll be quite surprised to see you take a big bite of humble pie," Charlotte chirped, slithering out of his grip and away from the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.

"By the way, I kicked your things under the bed," Charlotte said. "Sorry."

"Sorry, she says," Sherlock snorted, smirking to himself as he trudged across the room to collect his things.

"I'll see you in the cafe," Charlotte told him, slipping into the bathroom and closing the door behind her.

Sherlock heard the water turn on as he tugged on his clothes. He was tempted to follow her inside, but he knew better. He knew she meant business about his apologizing to John. After dressing and with a longing look at the exterior of the bathroom door, he exited the room and slunk down the hallway toward his own room.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Hi readers! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. One thing I wanna know: Do you want to see Sherlock and Charlotte together for real? Or do you like this whole sneaking around and fooling around thing? Or maybe you don't ship them at all. Who knows? Thanks for reading, as always. xx**


	10. The Hounds of Baskerville: Part III

Later that morning, Charlotte once again found herself alone in the cafe beneath the Inn, sipping a rather large cup of coffee. One of her course books was open on the table in front of her, but she was only eyeing it from time to time. Her concentration was elsewhere that morning. It was on the hound, on the rift between John and Sherlock, but mostly—if she was being entirely honest with herself—it was on Sherlock. Their night together had left her more muddled than the previous time. It was easy to call Christmas Eve a one night stand and move on; the night previous, however, had felt like something else entirely.

"You mean something to me." Sherlock's voice echoed in her head as she attempted to make sense of the same sentence on the same page she been on since she sat down.

"This is painful to watch," a familiar voice spoke.

Charlotte blinked rapidly, snapping out of it soon enough to recognize Lestrade approaching her table. A plate was set down in front of her, bearing a scone with cream and jam.

"I don't know what I'm more confused about," Charlotte stated, her face clearly showing her disbelief. "The fact that you're here or the fact that you're feeding me."

Lestrade cracked a smile. "Aren't you always the one bringing pastries?" he asked, humored.

"I suppose so, yeah," Charlotte responded, looking reasonably impressed at Lestrade's attention to detail.

"Well, I've watched you sit in front of that page for nearly half an hour," Lestrade told her. "And you haven't so much as noticed me staring at you from across the way. I know someone who needs brain food when I see them."

"Thank you," Charlotte responded. She smiled graciously and reached for the scone, using a butter knife to half it.

"I also know a sleepless night when I see one," Lestrade judged, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

"Is that your diplomatic way of telling me I looked tired?" Charlotte wondered, giving him a quizzical look as she spread cream on one half of her scone.

Lestrade chuckled. "Trust me, I know better than to tell a woman she looks tired," he said.

Charlotte looked unconvinced. "I couldn't sleep well. Lumpy bed and all." She had spread jam on the other half of the scone and was raising it to her lips.

Lestrade hummed his acknowledgement. "Where have Sherlock and John gotten to?" he wondered.

Charlotte shrugged, crumbs dribbling from her mouth. "Dunno," she admitted, once her mouth was relatively clear. "They've had a bit of a tiff, so I thought it was time for me to fake some school work. Sherlock will never grovel, unless it's just the two of them."

"Sherlock Holmes, grovel?" Lestrade questioned, looking surprised.

"Believe me, he has it in him," Charlotte responded with a snort. She took another bite of her scone, not even bothering to clear her mouth before speaking. "So, are you going to tell me why you're here?" she asked pointedly.

"I'm on holiday," Lestrade answered.

Charlotte scoffed, some crumbs flying out of her mouth. "Nice try," she told him, swallowing down the bite. "Have you been sent to keep an eye on Sherlock? I'm sure Mycroft couldn't have been happy about the stunt he pulled yesterday."

Lestrade cleared his throat and stuck his hands into his pockets. "As far as you and I are concerned, Charlotte, I'm here on holiday," he said.

"Right," Charlotte replied with a bored look. "Well, your being here is actually quite fortunate. I need some muscle."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade questioned, an amused look on his face.

Charlotte reached into her school bag and pulled out a receipt she had snagged from the counter. "Take a look at this," she invited, pulling out the chair beside hers so Lestrade could sit.

Lestrade took a seat beside her and squinted at the piece of paper, reading it over.

"That's an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant, isn't it?" Charlotte questioned.

The two of them exchanged a dubious look.

* * *

When Sherlock and John returned to the cafe, Charlotte and Lestrade had already been sitting down with its proprietors for the better part of an hour.

Sherlock's brow furrowed immediately as he laid eyes on Lestrade. "What's going on?" he asked suspiciously. "Why are you here?"

"Nice to see you, too, Sherlock," Lestrade deadpanned. He stood with a grunt and offered his hand to the sleuth.

Sherlock took it and shook, albeit begrudgingly.

John shook his hand next, in turn. "Not to sound like an echo, but what exactly is going on here?" he asked confusedly.

"What's going on is Charlotte's cracked this case," Lestrade said, looking unjustifiably proud.

"What?" John questioned, his confusion mounting. He looked past Lestrade at Charlotte, who was still seated across from the cafe owners.

"When I went up to order a coffee, I noticed their order receipts," Charlotte explained, sliding the incriminating piece of paper across the table toward John.

The doctor picked it up and examined it. "Steak?" he questioned. "At a vegetarian restaurant?"

The proprietors looked increasingly guilty. "It was just a prank," one of them spoke up. "A way to get more tourists through the place."

"There were already legends of the hound, so we sort of…"

"Exploited them?" Sherlock questioned, narrowing his eyes at them. "Set a bloodthirsty animal loose on the moor?"

"Bloodthirsty's a bit harsh," one of the owners stated.

"But it did get out of control, didn't it?" Charlotte countered, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"Yes," the other man stated, looking down at the table. "He got too aggressive. I had to…take care of it. Couple weeks ago it happened."

"You killed him then?" John surmised, his mouth set in a hard line.

The proprietor nodded his head glumly. "It had to be done," he confessed.

"Well, that accounts for the footprints," Lestrade said, ticking off a mental list. "And the sightings on the moor." He closed his notebook with a snap of finality. "Honestly, Sherlock, she could put you out of business."

Sherlock scowled at the man. "And if she can put me out of business, you don't have a prayer, Lestrade," he sneered.

"I've got to go make a call," Lestrade answered with an annoyed look. He took his leave of them and walked out of the cafe.

"Well, I think I'll get a coffee," Sherlock decided matter-of-factly. "Do one of you mind? You have customers here," he said to the cafe owners, who both scrambled up hurriedly and got behind the bar.

"I'll grab one, too," Charlotte said, following after Sherlock.

While they waited for their coffees off to the side of the bar, Sherlock glanced over at Charlotte. "You must be rather proud of yourself," he murmured to her, a slight smirk on his lips.

"As a matter of fact I am," Charlotte responded. "But it was just dumb luck. I just happened to look in the right place at the right time."

"Yes, but you put two and two together," Sherlock complimented. "And you got Lestrade to cooperate with you and not be a total bumbling idiot. I'm beginning to think you have a gift, Ms. Green."

"Coffee's up," one of the proprietors said, looking at them both nervously as he set the cups down on the service counter.

Charlotte poured milk into her coffee, stirring it slowly. "Don't think I'm under the impression that this solves our case," she uttered.

Sherlock stole a look at her somewhere between adoration and a burning desire to rip her clothes off in the middle of the cafe. "I would never underestimate you," he replied in a hushed tone.

Charlotte stepped aside, holding her mug in her hands and blowing to cool it. She walked to join John at a table. As she sat down, she saw the consternated look on his face. "What's that face for?" she asked him.

"If they got rid of the dog weeks ago, then what exactly happened last night?" John posited.

"Good, you've caught on," Sherlock said, joining them at the table with two cups of coffee in hand. He sat and slid one across the table to John.

"What's this?" John asked, looking stumped.

"Coffee," Sherlock replied. "I got it for you."

"Well, that's…" John shrugged a shoulder and picked up the cup, taking a tentative sip. He made a slight face. "I don't usually take sugar," he stated. Then, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "But it's good. Thank you."

Charlotte looked between the two of them with something like satisfaction. She sipped her own coffee.

"The dog theory accounts for the footprints and the tourist sightings, but it doesn't account whatsoever for what Henry and I experienced last night," Sherlock stated, back to business.

Charlotte nodded appreciatively. "There's something still out there."

"I thought you said you didn't see anything," John mused, catching Sherlock out.

"Experienced, John. Experienced," Sherlock corrected, holding up a finger.

"Yeah, okay," John replied dubiously, taking a sip of his coffee. "Experienced, then. You claimed that nothing happened out on the moor."

"Well, I lied," Sherlock stated flatly. "Are you happy?"

"A bit," John admitted, cracking a smile.

"So, what are we going to do?" Charlotte asked, looking between the two of them.

"We are going back to Baskerville," Sherlock proclaimed, emphasizing the first word and indicating himself and John.

Charlotte looked disappointed, although she knew there was good reason for her not tagging along. "Fine," she sighed. "I suppose I can continue with my schoolwork until I'm needed."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, looking pleased that everything was all set.

"Or maybe I'll drop in on Henry," Charlotte mused, stirring her spoon aimlessly around her coffee cup. "I would imagine he's still pretty shaken up from last night. Maybe he needs some company."

"I dropped in on him this morning," Sherlock informed her. "He seemed fine."

"Then I'm definitely going," Charlotte decided, giving Sherlock a look and snorting softly. "If he's seen you this morning, he's certainly distraught."

John chuckled. "I think that's a good idea, Charlotte," he told her. "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

* * *

Charlotte got a lift to Henry's home from John and Sherlock on their way to Baskerville. They dropped her off and she walked up the footpath to his front door and rang the doorbell.

As soon as he answered, Charlotte was glad she had come. Henry looked like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep in days. He wore the same cagey look that Sherlock had had the night before—but worse, somehow. "Charlotte," he greeted, with little affect. "How good to see you. Come in."

"Thank you. Good to see you, too." Charlotte shuffled inside the house, struck again by just how wealthy Henry really was.

"Are you here about the case?" Henry asked. "Has Sherlock found anything?"

"I'm afraid not," Charlotte responded with a frown, knowing he was probably tired of hearing there were no breaks.

"You must be here to ask questions, then," Henry ascertained. "I thought Sherlock was here to do that earlier, but he just came in for a cup of coffee. He was acting a bit strange."

"I think what the two of you saw last night has him spooked," Charlotte told him.

Henry snorted derisively. "He claims he saw nothing," he said, an edge to his voice.

"Maybe he didn't see anything, necessarily," Charlotte replied, trying to keep her tone light. "He keeps going on about what he 'experienced,' whatever that means."

"Well, I know what I saw," Henry stated firmly, looking haunted by the mere mention of the hound.

"Henry, let's not talk about the case," Charlotte suggested gently, not wanting him to spiral. Something about his demeanor that day made her uneasy. She was dealing with a man at the end of his rope. "I really just came by to see how you were doing. I thought we could talk—have tea, maybe."

"Tea sounds nice," Henry responded, nodding slowly. "Let's put some on, shall we?"

Charlotte nodded politely and followed him into the kitchen. She took a seat at one of the stools at the breakfast bar, looking over her shoulder out the window as Henry filled the kettle with water. "You have a beautiful garden," she commented, one corner of her mouth turning up. "Do you sit out often?"

"Not really," Henry replied with a short chuckle. "My job keeps me pretty busy." He cleared his throat. "But I've…I've taken some personal time, recently. That's why I'm not there today."

"That's understandable," Charlotte responded empathetically. She turned her head to watch him as he set the kettle on the stovetop. "The documentary really affected you, didn't it?"

Henry nodded somberly, leaning his back against the counter and staring down at a piece of lint on his sweater. "Yeah, haven't been the same since," he said. "It's like it brought it all back."

"Have you been sleeping?" Charlotte asked curiously.

"Not really," Henry answered honestly. "Couple hours a night at most. The dreams are so vivid, I—" He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes focused on something through the glass of the window.

Charlotte followed his gaze and her brow furrowed when she saw the empty back garden, just as it had been moments before.

"Did you see that?" Henry asked, his voice not much louder than a whisper.

"See what?" Charlotte wondered.

Henry shook his head, as if to wipe his thoughts clean. "Sorry. Sorry, I—" He cleared his throat. "I've been seeing things. The other night I could have sworn I saw something moving out that window."

"Did you see it again?" Charlotte asked carefully.

"I thought so, but maybe I'm just too jumbled now," Henry said. He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. "I feel like I'm going mad."

"Fear can drive us out of our minds," Charlotte reasoned. "But I don't think you're quite there yet. Let's sit and have a chat, okay? We'll talk about something else. Get your mind off of it."

"Yeah…" Henry replied, still seeming distracted. His eyes glanced furtively out the big window. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Charlotte looked pleased. "Just one thing first," she said as she stood from her seat. "Where's your restroom?"

"Down that hall, all the way on your left," Henry told her, pointing.

"Thanks," Charlotte responded. She walked off.

As Charlotte was washing up, she heard a Henry yell out something indiscernible. She hastily dried her hands and opened the bathroom door, rushing out into the hallway. "Henry?" she questioned. When she emerged back out into the kitchen, she could see that it was empty—Henry was nowhere in sight. "Henry?" she called out again. She walked over to check if the fire on the stove was still lit; it was, and everything seemed just as it had been.

Then, she heard the pound of hurried footsteps coming from the opposite hallway. She turned just in time. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, startled at the site of Henry wielding a gun. He pointed it right at her.

"It's you," Henry accused. His voice shook and he had a mad look in his eye. "It was you all along." The gun wobbled in his hand as he trembled. His eyes glossed over with tears. "It was you!" he boomed.

"Henry," Charlotte said, an odd sense of calm flooding over her as she realized she would have to talk him down. "Henry, I'm not who you think I am. It's Charlotte, remember? We were going to have tea."

Henry practically growled back at her, his teeth clenched so hard together that his jaw shook. The gun clicked as he cocked it.

"Henry, you're in your home," Charlotte told him, her voice a soothing murmur. "You're safe. You're nowhere near the hollow."

"I'm home…?" Henry echoed. He didn't seem to believe her words, but they gave him pause, nonetheless.

"Yes, Henry. Home and safe," Charlotte reassured him. She stepped away from the stove and took a few steps toward him. "You need to put the gun down, Henry. I don't mean you any harm."

"Don't mean me any harm…" Henry mimicked, his jaw slackening. His gun hand lowered ever so slightly.

Charlotte chanced another step, putting out a hand to him. "Just give me the gun, Henry. Everything will be all right."

Behind her, the tea kettle began to rasp, then whistle. Henry's gun arm flexed once again and Charlotte found herself looking down the barrel. "What's that?" Henry demanded, possessed. The kettle whistled louder and steadily rose in pitch until it was a shrill scream. "Make it stop!" Henry shouted. "Make it stop, make it stop!" He wagged the gun at Charlotte agitatedly.

Charlotte saw her opportunity gone and found herself too close for comfort. Her heart pounded in her chest as she took a few steps back.

"Make it stop, make it stop!" Henry yelled again, advancing on her.

"Henry, please stop," Charlotte begged. "It's just the kettle." She stepped back again and tripped over her own feet, stumbling.

The sudden movement unnerved Henry and he pulled the trigger, a single shot firing into the wall above the stove. Charlotte screamed and dove to the floor, cowering against the cabinets. She put her arms over her head and tried to slow her breathing. Everything went silent, except for the high-pitched wail of the kettle.

"Ch-Charlotte?" Henry's voice asked.

Charlotte looked up from where she sat and saw that Henry's face had returned to normal.

"Oh my God," Henry stated, seeing the gun in his hand. He glanced around the room and his brain seemed to put everything together. "I-I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm so sorry." He began to back away from her, shaking his head.

"Henry, wait—" Charlotte pleaded, but he was already running for the door.

Charlotte heard it open and then the bang as it hit the opposite wall, left ajar. She slowly rose to her feet, her legs threatening not to hold her as they shook violently. She turned off the stove to stop the kettle's scream and then leaned her hip heavily against the counter, using it to support her as she withdrew her phone from her pocket.

When there was no answer from Sherlock's phone, she called John.

"Hello?" he answered.

"John, you need to find Henry," Charlotte stated firmly.

"What do you mean? What's happened?" John questioned.

"I-I don't know," Charlotte admitted. "One second he was fine and the next he was…" She shook her head and breathed out a shaky breath. "John, he's got a gun. There's no telling what he'll do."

"A gun?" John asked, his concern immediate. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Charlotte insisted, an edge to her voice. "Please, just go and find him. I'm sure he's gone to the hollow. I'm sure of it."

"We'll come by and get you and then—"

"No," Charlotte cut him off. "I'll find my way there. I'm afraid he'll hurt himself, John."

"Right," Watson responded, nodding curtly to himself. "Right. Well…we'll see you there. Take care, all right? Call me if he comes back."

John hung up and looked at Sherlock, who was already hovering over his shoulder. "We need to get to Dewer's Hollow," he insisted. "Now."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied. "And we'll pick up Charlotte on the way." He was already moving off toward the exit.

"There's no time," John claimed. "Charlotte said it was urgent."

"The man's on foot," Sherlock disregarded. "Urgent is a relative term."

"Sherlock, I really think—" He almost ran into Sherlock as the he whipped around to face him.

"We are picking Charlotte up first, and that is non-negotiable," Sherlock snapped. "She's been shot at, for Christ sakes."

"Er…o-okay," John responded, completely thrown off guard by Sherlock's intensity.

"Honestly, John, aren't you the one who's supposed to be concerned about other people?" Sherlock sniffed, turning a 180 and continuing out the door.

* * *

When Charlotte heard a car's engine rumbling outside the house, she tried to be angry at John and Sherlock for disobeying her wishes. However, the relief she felt as she walked out the front door and saw Sherlock making his way up the path overshadowed her annoyance. She practically ran to him and threw her arms around him.

Sherlock hugged her back, hyper-aware of the fact that John had full view of them where they stood in the Jeep's headlights. He kept the embrace brief and released Charlotte, holding her at arm's length as he looked down into her face with as much distance as he could muster. "Okay, Green?" he asked.

Charlotte nodded like a bobble-head, slightly out of breath. "Okay," she answered.

"Then, let's go," Sherlock said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to give the impression that he was rushing her to the car.

* * *

They arrived at Dewer's Hollow minutes later, all three of them leaping out of the car and running into the blackness readily. They found Henry exactly where they thought they would—in the depths of the hollow itself. He was stumbling around, disoriented and still holding the gun. As they watched from afar, he put the gun into his mouth.

"Henry, no!" Sherlock shouted, getting his attention.

The man wielded around with a terrified look in his eyes, pointing the gun at them. "Don't come closer!" he warned. "I've done a horrible thing. You don't know what I'm capable of."

"Henry, I know you didn't mean to shoot at me," Charlotte reasoned.

Henry squinted into the bright light of John's torch. "Charlotte?" he questioned. "Oh, God…No, no, no…"

"It's me," Charlotte assured him. "You're not hearing things."

"No! No!" Henry refused to believe her. "I know what I am!"

"You believed what they wanted to believe, Henry, that's all," Sherlock told him calmly, taking steps toward the man. "In order to keep up the lie, they had to keep you a frightened child."

Henry whimpered indiscernibly.

"Now, what was it you saw here all those years ago, Henry?" Sherlock questioned.

"I thought I saw…I thought…" Henry began to get worked up. "I don't know! I don't know what I saw!" he lamented, his voice close to a scream. He brought the gun to his mouth once again.

"Henry, stop it!" John pleaded, looking about to rush forward.

Charlotte had turned her head, so as not to see what might transpire.

"It wasn't an animal you saw, was it?" Sherlock pressed, almost within arm's reach of Henry. "It was a man. Remember, Henry."

Henry took on a blank expression as his mind processed Sherlock's words.

"You couldn't handle it," Sherlock said, his voice matter-of-fact, as always. "You were only a child. Your brain had to create something to cope with the trauma—the hound."

"But I…I…"

"Then you began to remember and you had to be stopped," Sherlock interjected. "You had to believe you were insane, so that other people wouldn't believe you when you kept talking."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called as he made his way down the embankment toward them.

"Here, mate, I'll take that," John said softly, approaching Henry and gently taking the gun from his grasp.

"B-but we saw it," Henry stammered, his attention solely on Sherlock. "We saw it last night. The hound."

"We saw a dog," Sherlock corrected, his tone somewhat gentle. "It was just a dog. Fear and stimulus was all it took to turn it into a monster."

Just as Henry seemed to be settling, a vicious snarl arose from the mist. Charlotte's head snapped up and panned side to side, searching the tree line at the lip of the hollow. She squinted against the thick fog, unable to make out where the sound was coming from.

"What in the hell?" Lestrade demanded, pointing.

Charlotte could feel the pounding of her heart in the back of her throat. "Sh-Sherlock," she stammered, her hand raising slowly to point to where she saw two red eyes staring back at her.

"No! No!" Henry screamed, moving to cower behind them all. "No, this can't be happening!"

"Sherlock, what the hell is it?" John demanded, stumbling backward as he tried to distance himself from the creature.

"It's nothing," Sherlock insisted, even though his voice shook. "It's just what they want us to see."

"Lestrade and I haven't been drugged," Charlotte reminded him, her voice high and panicked. "What is that, Sherlock?"

Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Sherlock wheeled around to face an oncoming masked figure. "No," he uttered, shaking his head. "No, no. It can't be you!"

Meanwhile, the hound was making its way down the embankment toward them.

Sherlock took the gas mask firmly in a hand and ripped it from their assailant's head to reveal not Moriarty, but Dr. Frankland. The older man covered his mouth and nose, as Sherlock's eyes widened in realization. "It's in the fog!" he proclaimed. "The chemical is all around us! The documents said aerosol dispersal."

Charlotte covered her nose and mouth as Dr. Frankland shouted: "Good God, shoot the damn thing!"

Both Lestrade and John opened fire on the hound, one of them finally catching it. The beast crumpled to the ground and a silence fell over the hollow.

It was short lived, however, when Henry cried out: "You!" and ran at Dr. Frankland in a blind rage. He tackled him to the ground and was screaming indiscernibly in his face before Lestrade and John succeeded in pulling him off.

Charlotte rushed to help hold him back, taking one of Henry's shoulders. "It's okay," she assured him soothingly. "It's okay."

"This case!" Sherlock celebrated. "This case, Henry!" He pumped a fist in the air. "Murder weapon, scene of the crime, all wrapped into one. Thank you. It's been truly brilliant."

"Sherlock," Charlotte reproached, giving him a look from where she stood beside Henry.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, completely oblivious.

"Timing," John hissed through gritted teeth.

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking confused. "Not good?"

"Definitely not—" Charlotte let out a small scream as the dog began to stir behind Sherlock. Lestrade took another shot at it, but the animal made a mad dash for the embankment.

Unfortunately, Dr. Frankland used the opportunity to make a run for it as well.

"After him!" Henry shouted. "Don't let him get away!"

They all ran after the scientist, catching sight of him again once they'd broken through the tree line that encapsulated Dewer's Hollow. The old man was standing on the open moor, not daring to move an inch.

"Is he…?" John questioned, looking between his companions.

"I think so," Charlotte replied, scarcely daring to breathe.

Her theory proved correct when there was a sudden boom and a harsh burst of light, the mine triggering beneath Dr. Frankland's foot. They all watched in awe as the scientist and his surroundings were engulfed in flame, burning bright in the dark.

* * *

Charlotte awoke early the next day, rousted from her sleep by an unpleasant and anxious dream. She had dreamt of Henry, as she knew she would. Her mind had a way of holding onto things. Knowing full well she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, she dressed silently, donning her coat and boots to combat the cold morning. She figured she ought to get as much clean air into her lungs as possible before returning to London.

She slipped out of the hotel's main entrance, just as the horizon was beginning to lighten. It was incredible to her the difference between dawn and dusk. As she made her way out onto the moor, the near-darkness didn't perturb her as it had the night they had ventured into Dewer's Hollow at sundown. The coming of day wasn't as forbidding as the coming of night, and she picked her way along a grassy path tranquilly.

The sun breached the horizon line and, among the rocks, Charlotte saw a person silhouetted against the coming morning. She was both surprised and completely unsurprised to find Sherlock standing atop one of the very rocks she had been hoping to climb that morning, as if waiting for her. His knack for anticipating events really knew no bounds.

As Charlotte made her approach, Sherlock noticed her for the first time, his head turning to investigate the movement in his peripheral vision. He looked taken off guard, perhaps not having expected her at all. He watched as Charlotte made her way up the rock, eventually coming to stand beside him.

"All right, Green?" he asked, eyeing her with a hint of concern.

Charlotte nodded. "Just couldn't sleep, is all," she responded. "I had dreams."

"Of Henry?" Sherlock wondered.

"Yeah," Charlotte confirmed, her nodding growing more solemn. "And what about you? Are you stalking me?"

"I should be asking you," Sherlock replied with a soft snort. "I was here first."

Charlotte chuckled softly, shaking her head. A beat of silence passed between them before she glanced up at him tentatively. "Did you have another sleepless night?" she asked. "Are you still—"

"Afraid? A bit, I suppose. Restless may be a better word for it. I was tossing and turning all night," Sherlock answered honestly. "It will take a few days for the poison to completely leave my system."

"You could have come by my room, you know," Charlotte told him. "If you were feeling uneasy."

"I decided I would let you sleep," Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth turning up mischievously.

"A lot of good that did," Charlotte joked, snorting softly. "I tossed and turned all night, too."

"Would you have liked me there?" Sherlock asked, staring off into the horizon so as not to look too invested.

"I would have," Charlotte decided, nodding affirmatively. "Sleeping next to someone is always calming."

"Someone?" Sherlock questioned scrutinously.

Charlotte gave him a knowing look, eyebrow arced ever so slightly. Then she turned her head to stare off at the oncoming sun. "You're the only one I'm sleeping beside at the present time," she let him know.

She was surprised when she felt his hand touch hers, so cold from the morning. He intertwined their fingers.

"What do we do when we get back to London?" Sherlock asked.

Charlotte was silent for a few moments, contemplating how to answer him. She let out a soft sigh.

"It has to stay the same," he answered his own question, reading her mind.

"Well…"

"It's not worth ruining your career over," Sherlock stated assuredly, finally turning his head to look at her. He stared into her eyes meaningfully. "I wouldn't give it a second thought if you weren't excellent at what you do."

Charlotte reached up with her free hand to touch his cheek, tracing her fingers down to his chin to pull him closer. She kissed him softly at first, but it grew in intensity. She pulled away slowly. "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured. "A damn good man."

"You could find better," Sherlock replied self-deprecatingly, the corner of his mouth inching up.

"I'll let you know if I do," Charlotte teased, stealing one last quick kiss.

"I would know before you told me," Sherlock reminded her, smiling down at her in an intoxicated sort of way.

Charlotte smiled up at him and shook her head. She leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing out contently. They stood there together until the sun had risen completely, enjoying the silence and each other's presence while they still had the chance.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Hi readers! Hope you enjoyed the newest chapter. Please let me know all your thoughts (besides, 'Why does it take you so long to post?'). Do you think Sherlock and Charlotte are right to keep their ~thing~ a secret? Or do you think they should just go for it?**


	11. The Reichenbach Fall: Part I

After Baskerville, Sherlock's celebrity seemed to flourish. He was called in on a number of high-profile cases, given expensive trinkets as rewards—all expensive, except for the deer-hunting hat Lestrade gifted him in jest. His face plastered the morning papers, the headlines boasting his latest feats. It was a recovered work of art one week, the saving of a bank owner the next, followed by the capture of one of Britain's most wanted.

Charlotte once again found herself hounded by reporters while en route to work. The closer she neared to Baker Street, it seemed, the closer she came to the epicenter of the latest tabloid earthquake. The scandalous things the reporters claimed were far from the truth at that point—Sherlock had kept his promise to keep things status quo, and the two of them had been nothing but professional, even after their night in Baskerville. After a while, the meddling and instigative nature of the press didn't both her nearly as much as it did John.

"'Bachelor' John Watson," he exclaimed as she let herself into the flat that day. "What do you think they mean by that?"

"That you're a bachelor?" Charlotte tried, giving him a look. "Which you are, by the way. In case you hadn't checked."

"When did you get so smart?" John questioned with a snort.

"Morning, Charlotte," Sherlock greeted from the kitchen, staring through his microscope intently.

"Morning," Charlotte offered in reply. "John, you're simply overreacting," she continued, hardly missing a beat. "It wouldn't matter what they mean if you didn't care so much." She hung her coat on its usual hook.

"My point is, we must be more careful," John said to Sherlock, who looked disinterested entirely.

Charlotte walked across the room to her desk, trying not engage John further.

"Well, they ought to pick one," John said, speaking to whoever would listen. "They're saying the two of you are having an affair as well, you know."

"I know," Charlotte replied, sounding bored as she opened her laptop. "But how can Sherlock possibly be tangled up with me when he spends so much time notorious Bachelor, John Watson?" She snickered to herself at John's expense.

"Oh, quit it," John scolded. "Get to work, would you? Don't want you getting lazy on us."

"Is the blog even relevant anymore?" Charlotte wondered openly. "I mean, the papers cover Sherlock's most recent cases. A better use of my time would be answering fan mail."

"Fan mail," Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head minutely.

"You've received enough locks of hair to fashion yourself a wig," Charlotte joked to Sherlock, chuckling.

"Too bad it's not all the same color," John put in with a smile.

"Yes, too bad," Charlotte agreed.

John let out a long breath. "I hate to admit it, but you're right," he told her. "There's really no use for the blog right now. The most interesting task I can assign you is answering the comments on the website."

Charlotte looked interested at this prospect. "Do I have to be polite?" she asked.

"You have to be professional," John told her, feigning sternness. "Not to mention truthful."

"Truthful?" Charlotte questioned, looking taken aback. "How ever am I supposed to fuel the rumors, then?"

John rolled his eyes. "You can spend the rest of the time doing your schoolwork," he told her. "If you can get anything done with the amount of clamor outside."

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder and smiled to herself, beginning to parse through the comments on John's site.

Almost the entire time they had been talking, Sherlock's text tone had been going off incessantly. As soon as they stopped, the sound became even more conspicuous.

"I'll get it, shall I?" John offered sarcastically after it pinged again, giving Sherlock a look that the sleuth didn't care to see. He picked up the phone and unlocked it. "Sherlock," he said, his eyes widening as he saw the message.

"Not now, John," Sherlock replied, eye still trained on the slide beneath his microscope.

"Sherlock," John said again, his tone more serious.

"John, I said—"

"You're going to want to see this," John assured him, walking over and holding the phone out for Sherlock to see.

The silence that ensued caused Charlotte to look up from her reading. "What is it?" she asked, seeing Sherlock and John frozen in place.

"He's back," Sherlock announced. "Moriarty's back."

* * *

Charlotte hustled into the courthouse, school bag still slung over her shoulder. By happenstance, she ran into John in the foyer. "Did I miss anything?" she asked, out of breath.

John looked surprised to see her. "Just about to go in," he explained. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"My professor gave me a pass," Charlotte replied with obvious delight. "Said I couldn't miss something like this. Not when I have the chance to witness the trial of a criminal mastermind."

John made a face at her use of the word 'mastermind.' "The other students must be beside themselves," he commented.

"Oh, they'll be here," Charlotte told him. "It's become something of a field trip. I just happened to run fast enough to catch the tube before the rest of them. I wanted to be here in time to wish Sherlock luck."

"Is that something you do for an expert witness—wish them luck?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"By 'wish him luck,' I mean remind him not to be an intolerable know-it-all," Charlotte admitted.

"Lot of good that will do," John said with a snort. He put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her somewhat. "Come, then. We should find our seats."

Charlotte and John made their way into the courtroom, seeking out seats as they walked. "There," Charlotte said, pointing at an empty section. "I think that's our best bet."

As they were passing near the bench, a high voice called out, "Charlotte Green."

Charlotte turned in confusion, not recognizing the voice. That's when she first caught sight of him, sitting in his seat and smiling at her with the nonchalance of someone spotting their neighbor at the supermarket. If she hadn't already seen his image plastered all over the news, she might have been surprised at his appearance. For the fear he instilled in people, he was quite unassuming—scrawny, pale, and unassuming, by all accounts.

"And John Watson," Moriarty recognized with the same nonchalant delight. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't see you at first, blinded as I was by Ms. Green." He grinned ingratiatingly.

"All right, that's quite enough," John grunted, taking Charlotte's arm and trying to steer her back on their course.

"But won't you come closer?" Moriarty mused. "All I want is a word. Not much else I can do in these restraints." He jangled his handcuffs.

Charlotte shrugged out of John's grip, enthralled as a biologist might be with a rare species. She walked as near as she could, barred by the gate that separated the accused from the rest of the court.

"You are a sight, aren't you?" Moriarty stated, a smile hiding in the crook of his mouth as he appraised her. "I see what he sees in you," he hissed, low enough to miss John's ears where he stood a few paces back, looking impatient.

When Charlotte didn't so much as flinch, Moriarty let out a delighted giggle. "I've forgotten—you don't care about such things as your reputation, do you Ms. Green?"

"Not much, no," Charlotte responded, straight-faced.

"Well, perhaps you should, considering you're known as a premier rookie in forensic psychology circles," Moriarty entreated, raising his eyebrows. "And if that reputation does, in fact, proceed you I imagine you'd like to speak with me."

"I would," Charlotte admitted.

"What would Sherlock Holmes think of his lover coveting his sworn enemy?" he asked, not even bothering to lower his voice this time.

"Tabloids will rot your brain. You shouldn't be reading that rubbish," Charlotte clucked. "But I'm sure the literature selection in a high security prison isn't exactly robust."

Moriarty looked back at her with something almost like pity. "You don't even know yourself, do you?" he asked.

"Know what?" Charlotte asked, playing into his game.

"That you'll come to find me irresistible," the crook replied. "You're drawn to me like a moth to a flame, Ms. Green. All the good ones are."

"All the good what?"

"Psychologists, shrinks, quacks," Moriarty listed flippantly. "They all want to know what makes me tick." He sighed out and shook his head, feigning despondency.

"I suppose I'll have to get in line then," Charlotte responded, having had enough of his theatrics.

"Not if you play your cards right," Moriarty replied, something suggestive about the way he said it. "I'll tell you everything, Charlotte Green. I'll bear my dark little soul to you."

"Am I supposed to ask 'why me?" Charlotte wondered aloud. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a level stare.

"Because you're the only one who could truly understand," Moriarty stated. One corner of his mouth turned up, the other hiding a secret.

"I'll pencil you in then," Charlotte assured him, patting the wood of the gate with finality.

"Oh, I do love a cold woman," Moriarty relished.

Sherlock had just entered through the door on the other side of the courtroom, moving toward the stand to take his place.

"Best move along, love," Moriarty said to Charlotte. "Wouldn't want to inspire jealousy, now would we?"

Charlotte smiled tightly and backed away, turning to rejoin John. He looked displeased but didn't say a word as they made their way up to their waiting seats.

On her way out of the courtroom, Charlotte was hounded by reporters and classmates alike—the former wanting the inside scoop on her conversation with Moriarty, and the latter wanting an introduction to her boss. By the time she was settled into the car, she felt thoroughly harassed. "I could use a drink," she sighed out, running a hand through her hair.

"Am I to understand you had a conversation with Moriarty?" Sherlock asked pointedly, not missing a beat.

"You sound like one of them," Charlotte replied, gesturing at the reporters crammed around the car, trying to see in through its tinted windows.

"Charlotte, I'm serious," Sherlock told her, his voice stern.

"We exchanged a few words," Charlotte replied, none too amused.

"It was more than pleasantries," John chimed in, wearing the same serious expression as Sherlock.

Charlotte shot John an annoyed look before glancing back out her window. "It's just a stupid game to him. He wanted to keep me talking so the two of you had plenty of time to get your knickers in a twist. Clearly, it worked."

"I heard her agree to speak with him," John mentioned to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, are you tattling?" Charlotte questioned, incredulous, as her head swung back around to look at him.

"Charlotte, you can't take Moriarty lightly," John told her. "What seemed like a stupid game to you is a diabolical scheme to him. He's always got an angle."

"We need to know everything," Sherlock told her. "At least what you can remember."

Charlotte let out a sigh when she realized how important this was to them. She proceeded to recall the entire conversation. After she had finished, she looked at them expectantly.

"You simply cannot speak with him—even if he's behind bars," Sherlock insisted forthright.

Charlotte snorted and shook her head. "Well, you won't have to worry about that because I don't anticipate that Jim Moriarty will be behind bars anytime soon," she replied.

"Sorry," John said, squinting at her as he sat forward in his seat. "Did I just hear you say Moriarty won't do time for this? They've got him on camera committing these crimes."

"Weren't you the one telling me not to underestimate him?" Charlotte asked, raising her eyebrows. "Come on, John. You really think Moriarty would pull all this just to rot in a jail cell?"

John had no reply, other than to look deeply ponderous. Sherlock looked much the same.

"Okay, you two have to lighten up," Charlotte insisted, looking at them both as if they were strangers. "I'm not a psychic. It's just a theory. An unfounded theory at that."

"But you've got a point," Sherlock muttered as he stared out his window, deep in thought.

* * *

Two months had elapsed since Moriarty's acquittal, and things had returned to a strange state of normal.

As Charlotte made her way to 221 Baker Street, a takeaway coffee cup in hand, she couldn't help but get the feeling that she was being trailed. Since she had rounded the corner onto the street, a man in a dark coat had changed his route to match hers. She walked a little more quickly, not daring to glance over her shoulder.

"Miss," his voice called from behind her. Even the single syllable foreclosed a thick eastern-European accent. "Excuse me, miss?"

Charlotte wheeled around. "What is it?" she asked, squaring her shoulders.

"Miss, you dropped your phone," the man explained, holding the device out to her.

"Oh," Charlotte said, realizing it must have slipped when she tried to return it to her pocket after a call with a classmate. But that had been back a couple blocks outside the coffee shop. She took the phone hesitantly. "Why didn't you say something sooner? You followed me all the way here?" she asked, still on guard.

"I try to catch you, but you walk fast." The man appeared awkward, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You work here, no?" he asked, gesturing toward 221.

"Er…" Charlotte wavered.

"I live here," the man told her, gesturing to one of the apartments next door. "I recognize you from the papers—with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I knew we would meet on Baker Street."

"Right," Charlotte replied, nodding curtly. "Well, thank you." She flashed a tight smile and turned to walk up the steps of 221B.

She made her way inside quickly, shutting the door soundly behind her. She ascended the stairs and let herself into Sherlock and John's flat, shrugging off her coat. "Morning," she said in greeting to Sherlock, who was stood by the window.

"Morning," the sleuth replied, but didn't turn to look at her. "Charlotte, I think it would be best if you cut down on your interactions with our neighbors."

"I was just thinking the same," Charlotte snorted, hanging her coat. "Why do you say so?" she asked curiously, wondering what his reasons were.

"Not sure yet," Sherlock admitted. "But there's been a sudden influx of new neighbors from parts unknown. I'm working on a theory."

"Well, there won't be any protest from me," Charlotte assured him. "Could have sworn one was stalking me this morning."

Sherlock hummed in response and turned from the window, languidly switching his gaze to her. "Good commute?" he asked.

"Easy enough," Charlotte responded with a shrug. "Where's John?" She looked around for the doctor.

"Out," Sherlock replied simply. "Dunno where. Should be back shortly." He raised his eyebrows. "Why? Afraid to be alone with me."

"That's been proven contrary," Charlotte joked, bobbing her eyebrows.

"I would say so, yes," Sherlock agreed, hiding a smile. "Quite contrary."

"Sherlock Holmes, are you flirting?" Charlotte asked, wondering just what had gotten into him.

"'Course not," Sherlock tutted back. "How very inappropriate that would be, Charlotte."

"Quite," Charlotte responded, bobbing her eyebrows. She walked over to her desk and set her bag down, then glanced up at him over by the window once again. "It's hard to turn it on and off, isn't it?" she said in a softer tone.

"Quite," Sherlock echoed. "But necessary."

Charlotte nodded in agreement and set about quietly unpacking her things.

Sherlock began to cross the room, headed for the kitchen. However as he neared Charlotte he slowed, stopping just behind her. He extended an arm and reached out affectionately, sweeping a sheaf of hair off her shoulder.

For the moment that his hand rested there, Charlotte reached up and carefully covered it with her own. They stood there for a suspended moment, she looking ahead over the desk and he toward the kitchen. Neither of them had to look at the other to know they felt the same—it had become tangible.

"It gets more difficult each day," Sherlock assured her.

Charlotte removed her hand from his and straightened up. Sherlock moved on without another word, back toward the kitchen—and just in time. Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Charlotte listened in as the callers spoke with Mrs. Hudson, discerning a familiar voice.

"Looks like there may be work today, yet," Sherlock read her mind, suddenly standing behind the armchair.

When John arrived home sometime later, Lestrade and Donovan had already briefed Sherlock and Charlotte on the case; the U.S. Ambassador's children had gone missing from their boarding school.

"What's going on?" the doctor asked, looking between the four of them.

"Keep your coat on, John, we're going to Surrey," Sherlock announced, already moving to exit the flat.

"You coming too?" John asked Charlotte, raising his eyebrows.

Charlotte shrugged. "If I'm allowed." She glanced at Lestrade, asking silent permission.

"You're allowed," Sherlock hollered from the stairwell.

Lestrade looked vexed at Sherlock's commandeering his authority, rolling his eyes and letting out a sigh. Then, his gaze grew regretful as he looked back at Charlotte. "Unfortunately, I think you're going to have to sit this one out, Charlotte," he informed the intern.

John looked ready to protest, but Charlotte jumped to Lestrade's defense. "They can't have someone without any formal training coming along on all their cases," she reasoned. "I'd rather sit it out than become a liability."

Lestrade looked grateful to her. "You can keep her updated," he said brusquely to John, steering his way out of the room after Sherlock.

"I will," John told her, nodding affirmatively.

"I'll hang 'round and get some schoolwork done," Charlotte responded, playing the good sport. "Go on then."

* * *

The sun had set by the time John texted Charlotte to tell her they were en route to Baker Street.

She had been spent the majority of her day doing online research for a paper due the following week. Sometime in the afternoon, however, she had grown tired of staring at her computer. Realizing she had an entire flat's-worth of relevant reading material at her fingertips, she had begun taking a few volumes off the bookshelves and thumbing through them.

With the time she had left alone in the flat, she reached for a large green anthology on one of the upper shelves, having to stand on the arm of the sofa to do so. As she grabbed the bulky book and wriggled it out of its place, she noticed a rather small camera hiding behind it, tucked into the upper corner of the shelf. Was this a home security measure Sherlock and John had put in place? It seemed to her that, with a crime-solving mind like Sherlock's, a camera wouldn't be necessary. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had put it in place years ago and forgotten it?

Gunshots sounded outside, snapping her thoughts far away from the camera. She leapt off the sofa and hurried to the window. In the street down below, she saw Sherlock standing over a man slumped against the lamppost.

She was out the door in moments, hurrying down the stairs. She threw the front door open. "Sherlock!" she called, running toward him in her stocking feet.

"Don't come any closer!" Sherlock warned, putting an arm out to halt her. He was looking around at the surrounding buildings, trying to pinpoint where the shots had been fired from.

Charlotte halted on the edge of the opposite curb, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold of the evening. "Are you okay?" she asked from afar.

"Yes," Sherlock assured her. "Quite all right." He squinted in the way he did when he was trying to work something out. "Call an ambulance, would you?"

Charlotte headed inside, having forgotten her phone in her rush, just as John's taxi arrived at the curb.

Once the victim—who Charlotte eventually recognized as the man who had returned her phone that morning—was taken away in the ambulance, John, Sherlock, and Charlotte reconvened in the flat. "He could save my life, but he couldn't touch me," Sherlock thought aloud, seating himself at the computer. "Why?"

"He's one of the assassins," John spoke up. "Mycroft warned me about him just this morning."

"Is that where you were?" Charlotte wondered, to which John nodded.

"We're surrounded by them," he explained. "They've been moving in over the past couple months."

"Oh, and now you're telling me," Charlotte said, giving him an incredulous look.

"We told you to steer clear of the neighbors, did we not?" Sherlock put in, though his focus was on the computer in front of him. "I've got something they want, clearly. But what?" He stared intently at the screen. "They've been watching us. We're in the middle of a surveillance web."

"Surveillance," Charlotte restated, remembering her earlier discovery. "Like video surveillance?"

Sherlock looked up from the laptop. "Precisely," he said. "What do you know?"

"I borrowed a book off the shelf," Charlotte explained, walking over and stepping up onto the sofa again. "And I found this." She pushed the book aside once more and pointed to the small camera.

"Charlotte, away from there," Sherlock warned, standing and approaching.

"It's not a detonating camera, is it?" Charlotte asked in a sarcasm-laden voice, looking at him over her shoulder.

"No, but they'll know your face now," Sherlock told her, taking her forearm and guiding her down off the sofa. He climbed up in her stead, peering at the camera intently.

"Trust me, they already do," Charlotte replied.

The door to the flat opened and in walked Lestrade.

"Let yourself in, did you?" John asked, looking confused.

"Mrs. Hudson did," Lestrade answered, shifting on his feet.

"The answer is no," Sherlock stated from his perch on the sofa, not bothering to turn around.

"You don't even know the question," Lestrade protested.

"You want me to go down to the station with you," Sherlock had already gathered. He plucked the camera out of its place carefully. "And the answer is no." He swooped down off the sofa, coming to face Lestrade. "It was the scream, wasn't it?"

"Er—"

"And it was Donovan, right? I bet it was Donovan," Sherlock charged on. "Oh, Moriarty is good. You can't kill an idea, can you?"

Lestrade let out another sigh, this one absolute frustration. "So, you won't come?" he clarified.

"Certainly not," Sherlock responded. "Good night, Lestrade." He turned and began to inspect the surveillance camera.

Lestrade shook his head and looked between John and Charlotte, brow furrowed, before turning and leaving.

Sherlock returned to his seat at the desk, still eyeing the camera carefully. John went to the window, looking out as the police car pulled away from the curb.

"Do you think he'll come back with a warrant?" Charlotte asked curiously, knowing how the procedure might go.

"He'll be deciding now," Sherlock said assuredly. "Wouldn't be surprised."

"Maybe you should have gone with him," John proposed. "Made things easier."

"I needed more time," Sherlock told him. "I have to figure out what they're looking for."

"Aren't you the least bit concerned?" John asked, turning from the window with a look of incredulity.

"About what?" Sherlock asked pointedly, looking up at John with an impatient look.

"About all this. About people thinking you orchestrated the kidnapping of the ambassador's kids just so you could solve it," John said, growing agitated. "Sherlock, I don't want people thinking…"

"Thinking what?" Sherlock demanded, prodding. "Thinking what, John?"

"That you're a fraud," Charlotte answered for him calmly, wanting to cut some of the tension between the two. "It's what Moriarty wants, isn't it?"

"You're afraid they're right," Sherlock accused, looking at the two of them. "You two are afraid I've strung you along as well."

John snorted, shaking his head. "Come on," he said. "I know you're for real."

"You yourself have told me I have a knack for reading people," Charlotte countered, raising her eyebrows at him in a resolute way. "And I know you're as smart as you say you are."

"Yeah, and no one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time," John added.

Sherlock switched his gaze back to the computer screen, satisfied. The smallest inkling of a smile rested on his features.

A few minutes later, John's phone pinged. He withdrew it from his pocket and frowned as he read it. "Well, at least I've still got one friend on the force," he said. "Lestrade's messaged. They're on their way. Queuing up to slap on the handcuffs."

Sherlock stood, adjusting the collar of his coat. He glanced at Charlotte. "Well, Green, it looks like we'll be going our separate ways for a while," he said matter-of-factly.

Charlotte looked puzzled, looking at him in question. "Excuse me?" she demanded.

"You can't possibly believe we would let you align yourself with a suspected criminal," Sherlock answered her. "Cut your ties now. You'll need to be on their side when they arrive."

"Are you mad?" Charlotte asked, stepping closer in indignation. "I'm not switching sides, Sherlock."

"You'd be wise to," Sherlock replied. "I'm not taking you down with me. Your career hangs in the balance."

"Sod my career!" Charlotte retorted powerfully, staring back at Sherlock as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "If a career in law enforcement is taking an innocent man in on no evidence, then sod it."

"You don't mean that, and I'd appreciate it if you'd take the emotion down a notch," Sherlock replied shortly, having to avert his eyes.

Charlotte looked to John for back-up, only to see his mouth set in a hard line of agreement. "This is ridiculous," she uttered, feeling like someone had punched her in the stomach. "I'm part of this team now. I can't…" She stormed off to the kitchen, shaking her head in disbelief.

The doorbell rang and John squared his shoulders. "I'll go," he said to Sherlock. He headed for the door and out, making his way down the stairs to head Lestrade off.

Sherlock looped a scarf around his neck and heard an argument break out between the two men, buying him a moment. He swiftly made his way into the kitchen. "Charlotte—" He stopped when he saw that she was hurriedly dabbing at her eyes.

"I'll do it," Charlotte rasped, staring straight past him. "If you're going to cast me off like some—"

"I would never cast you off," Sherlock interjected passionately. He looked at her with pleading eyes. "Charlotte, I'm… I'm asking you to cast _me_ off. I need you to, for your own sake."

"But I'm on your side," Charlotte reasoned weakly, knowing somehow that she'd already lost. She looked up and met his eyes. "I know you're not a fraud. I'd fight for you."

"I know you would," Sherlock responded, frowning compassionately. He stepped nearer and reached out to touch her cheek. "But if you were truly on my side, you would do as I say. This is a losing battle, Charlotte. And I'll be damned if I drag you down with me."

"I'd rather lose beside you and John than win with anyone else," Charlotte said. "These people—Lestrade and Donovan and the rest of them—they're not my people."

"They are now," Sherlock stated firmly, yet with a hint of remorse. "And to be one of them, you have to be on the right side of the law."

A beat of silence passed as they gazed at each other, the weight of the decision setting in.

"You will get out of this, won't you?" Charlotte asked in a quiet voice, looking at him for answer.

"Of course I will," Sherlock responded, cracking one of his smug smiles. "I'm me, after all."

"You'd better," Charlotte murmured, staring up at him with quiet intensity. She reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling his lips down to meet hers. They kissed deeply, despite knowing they had limited time to do so.

They inched apart as they heard the sounds of footsteps ascending the stairs. Both turned to exit the kitchen as if nothing had happened. John was still hammering at Lestrade, his voice loud and angry in the stairwell.

"Leave it, John," Sherlock insisted as he walked into the sitting room, cooperating by putting his hands behind his back.

Lestrade brought the handcuffs out and clasped them around Sherlock's wrists, looking reluctant even as he did so.

Meanwhile, Donovan stood in the corner, looking quite smug. "Hope you're proud of yourself," John snarled, eyeing her with disgust.

Charlotte almost threw in some choice words of her own, and it took all she had to honor her agreement with Sherlock and keep her mouth shut.

The sergeant came striding in as Lestrade escorted Sherlock down to the waiting car, looking equally as smug as Donovan, though acting quite superior. He glanced around the flat, making a face. "That's our man?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Donovan answered.

"Looks like a bit of a weirdo to me," the sergeant responded, bobbing his eyebrows. He looked between John and Charlotte. "And who might you lot be?"

When John made no reply but to narrow his eyes at the man, Charlotte piped up. She extended a hand. "Charlotte Green, sir," she introduced.

The sergeant took her hand and shook slowly, eyeing her. "Green…" he repeated, her name clearly ringing a bell. "Might you be the budding psychologist I've been hearing about?"

"Er, I don't know, sir," Charlotte answered humbly, trying not to show how much she detested him in that moment.

"Top of your class, head-turning theories on case studies," the sergeant continued, as if reciting from memory. "Yes, I've heard much about you, Ms. Green."

"I'm flattered, sir," Charlotte responded, not thinking there was much else to say.

The sergeants lips peeled into a smile. "Not flattery, Ms. Green, it's simply what I've heard," he replied. "I'd also heard you were 'interning' with Sherlock Holmes."

The sarcastic way he said 'interning' made Charlotte want to clobber him. "I was, sir," she said, the words tasting like bile. "You know, until…"

"You can't blame yourself, Ms. Green," the sergeant consoled. "He fooled some of my best men. You're young yet in this profession, but you'll learn."

Charlotte smiled tightly. "I hope so."

The sergeant reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a business card, handing it to her. "You call me if you want a real internship," he told her. His eyes shifted again to John, yet he spoke to Charlotte. "It's a shame your time and talents have been wasted here—but I promise a semester at Scotland Yard will reverse all the ramblings of a madman."

Charlotte saw it happening before John so much as made a fist, but she did little to stop him. He reeled back and swung at the sergeant, catching him across the face.

It was surreal to watch both John and Sherlock shoved up against the side of Lestrade's car, handcuffed. Charlotte stood on the curb, a comforting arm around a sniveling Mrs. Hudson. "They'll be all right, won't they Charlotte?" she sniffed, using her hanky to dab at her eyes.

"Of course they will, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte reassured the landlady, giving her a squeeze.

"Charlotte," Sherlock called out to her calmly.

Charlotte reluctantly released Mrs. Hudson and made her way over as close as she could manage. "What is it, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Take Mrs. Hudson inside, would you?" he requested. "She doesn't need to be seeing this."

Charlotte nodded dutifully. "Of course," she responded. She walked back over to the curb and put her arm around Mrs. Hudson once again, steering her back toward the house.

No sooner than Charlotte had put the kettle on in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen did she hear the sound of a gunshot.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "What is going on out there?"

The older woman moved to leave her chair, but Charlotte put a hand out to halt her. "I'll go," she assured her, hurrying toward the front door She opened it, revealing a scene of utter chaos, now understanding why Sherlock had wanted her and Mrs. Hudson tucked away. Sherlock had a gun to John's head, claiming him to be his hostage. All of the police force were on their knees, hands on their heads.

Charlotte watched in utter disbelief as Sherlock and John backed away from the scene, then turned and made a run for it. As soon as they were out of sight, the police force jumped to their feet, scrambling to follow. If Sherlock's request for her to disassociate herself with them hadn't been clear before, it surely was now.

Baker Street emptied in a matter of seconds, returning almost entirely to its residential tranquility. Charlotte remained on the stoop for a moment longer, the chill of the night surrounding her. A shiver rippled through her, and she felt it somehow ominous. She wrapped her arms around herself, taking one last look at the darkened street before returning inside and shutting the door.

Charlotte stayed up with Mrs. Hudson for an hour or so, trying to quell the landlady's worries. Eventually, she saw her off to bed, assuring her she would stay the night instead of fussing with cab fare. This reassured Charlotte as well; something about 221B being surrounded by assassins didn't make her feel right about leaving Mrs. Hudson alone.

Despite the late hour, Charlotte felt wired, unable to sleep. She sat at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table for a while, staring into her cold cup of tea and turning the events of the day over and over in her mind. Her stomach growled, practically startling her. She realized it had been since the morning that she'd eaten. She rose from the table and went to the fridge, opening it and beginning to take out the fixings for a sandwich.

Someone knocked on the front door, so quietly that she could have missed it. She straightened up and shut the refrigerator, striding out of the kitchen. She placed her hand around the knob and turned, not needing the peephole to know who was on the other side.

"Evening, Charlotte," Moriarty greeted as soon as he was revealed to her. A smile crept across his face and his eyes bore into her with the fascinated intensity of a madman.

Charlotte swept a lock of hair behind her ear. "You're calling rather late," she returned in greeting.

Moriarty glanced at his watch and feigned surprise. "It can't be that time already." He dropped his arm to his side and looked up at her. "You'll have to forgive me. I've been a bit busy today."

"Have you?" Charlotte wondered falsely, bobbing her eyebrows. "Well, then…"

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Moriarty asked, looking at her expectantly.

"I suppose you are just in time for lunch," Charlotte vacillated.

"Lovely," Moriarty responded. "I'm starved."

Charlotte stepped aside and Moriarty entered 221B, making his way to the kitchen as she stayed behind to close and lock the door.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **It feels so good to be writing this story again! The Reichenbach Fall is one of my favorite episodes, so it's taken a few false starts for me to feel good about this one. What do you think will happen between Charlotte and Moriarty? Let me know what you think in the comments. Thank you for reading! xx**


	12. The Reichenbach Fall: Part II

Moriarty sauntered into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and pulled a chair out for himself, taking a seat. He watched Charlotte closely as she walked over to flip on the electric kettle.

"Tea?" she asked calmly, reaching into the cupboard to fish herself out a tea bag. "If we're going to stay up talking I'm going to have to refresh my cup."

"So hospitable," Moriarty drawled ingratiatingly. "If you're making one for yourself…"

Charlotte grabbed two tea bags and an extra mug, placing all next to the kettle. She turned, leaning her low back against the counter as she looked at Moriarty. "Did you want a sandwich as well?" she asked. "I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't eaten all day."

"So that's how you keep your figure," Moriarty responded, flashing her a smile.

"No sandwich, then," Charlotte replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as she turned back around.

"I'm the one who's being rude," Moriarty lamented, letting out a sigh. "Coming by unannounced like this. But I knew this would be the only time I could get you all to myself."

The kettle clicked off and Charlotte reached for it, pouring the steaming water into both mugs and then dropping in the teabags. She placed them both on the table, sliding one toward her guest and setting the other one in her place. She retrieved milk from the refrigerator and set it down on the table with an intentional clunk.

"You're awfully quiet," Moriarty observed, cocking his head to the side. "Why?"

"I don't have much to say, I guess," Charlotte answered, shrugging a shoulder. "You caught me in the middle of processing everything that's happened today."

Moriarty smiled, as if she had complimented him in some way. "Oh, yes," he acknowledged. "I'd almost forgotten."

"I can't say it wasn't well thought out," Charlotte admitted, giving him a nod. "And almost seamless in execution."

"And you even missed the best part," Moriarty told her, smiling giddily now. "Oh, Charlotte, you should have been there. The look on Sherlock's face…" The villain stared off, as if reminiscing on a fine childhood memory.

In moments, his demeanor sobered. "But, of course, I knew once the police were involved Sherlock would distance himself from you. Always the gentleman." He rolled his eyes. "Dull, isn't he?"

"But that set us up perfectly for now," Charlotte mentioned. "I'd count your blessings."

"Was that a bit of snark I perceived, Ms. Green?" Moriarty queried, interest piqued.

"You'll have to forgive me. It's rather late," Charlotte excused, holding his gaze pointedly.

Moriarty stared back for just a beat too long. "Could get lost in those eyes," he commented, as if off-hand. He picked up his mug and blew on his tea, still watching her.

"Can we cut this bit?" Charlotte requested with a snort. "It's just the two of us here—you're not fooling anybody."

"What bit would that be, my dear?" Moriarty asked.

"This bit where you act like you're attracted to me," Charlotte stated. "Sherlock's not around, so what's the point, really?"

Moriarty's eyebrows inched up slightly and he took a tentative sip of his tea. "Am I not allowed to flirt?" he wondered openly. "You're a very attractive woman, I'm sure you're aware."

"You're here to get under Sherlock's skin," Charlotte stated, as if reminding him. "Your being here would do that on its own—he wouldn't care whether you remarked on my eyes or not."

"Is the idea of me being attracted to you that outlandish?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes," Charlotte answered with certainty. "The only thing you're attracted to is power—power over Sherlock, in particular."

Moriarty simply smiled at her. "Well, well," he remarked. "Irene Adler was right about you. You play the beta, but you're an alpha in the grass."

Charlotte continued to stack her sandwich in silence.

"An alpha between the sheets too, if my deduction skills are correct," Moriarty mused. "Which they are."

"I take charge, if that's what you mean," Charlotte responded levelly. She cut her sandwich diagonally in one swift motion and flopped both halves onto a plate. She swiveled and found her chair, taking a seat and setting the plate down in front of her. "I don't lie down and take anything. That's how you have an exceptionally mediocre time." She bit into her sandwich matter-of-factly and looked at him for a response.

Moriarty was decidedly quiet, meeting her eyes with the essence of a smirk. "While I may not have time for mundane attractions, Charlotte, I do see what he sees in you," he claimed. He leaned back in his chair and let out what could have been a woebegone sigh. "It's too bad you can't be out in the open with it."

"I think that would cause more complications than it's worth," Charlotte admitted, chewing her meal as she spoke.

"Would you choose him?" Moriarty asked. "If it came down to it, would you choose Sherlock or your career?"

Charlotte eyed Moriarty carefully, something about the way that he asked the question not sitting right with her. She decided not to answer completely, but to go with the facts. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" she posed. "If I had chosen Sherlock I might be slinking through the streets with him and John right now."

Moriarty nodded. "A diplomatic answer," he purred, looking unbiased.

Charlotte chewed her sandwich in silence, staring at him. She swallowed her bite and leaned back in her seat. "Speaking of my career, when are you going to tell me everything?" she asked curiously, crossing her legs at the knee.

"You're just going to ask?" Moriarty questioned, looking disenchanted. "Maybe you and Sherlock do deserve each other—both so boring."

"Don't forget, I'm a psychologist, not a detective," Charlotte said in reply. "I'm not here to outsmart or ensnare you. I'm here to listen." She watched him closely. "Worried you chose the wrong confidant?"

Moriarty clasped his hands in his lap, shaking his head. "I don't choose incorrectly," he assured her. "Of course you listen—but you also hear the things people don't tell you. You see the things others miss—others, like Sherlock. He may be very smart, but he lacks a certain…human element."

"I doubt I can see anything that Sherlock misses," Charlotte snorted softly, picking up her mug of tea and bringing it to her lips to blow on it.

"You'd be surprised," Moriarty responded, sipping his own tea.

"Shall I torture it out of you?" Charlotte wondered, cocking her head to the side.

"Better men than you have tried, Charlotte," Moriarty dismissed. "Besides, you can barely rub two pence together, much less afford a torture facility sophisticated enough to hold me."

Whether it was the late hour or her own delirium, Charlotte let out a genuine chuckle. "You've got me there," she admitted.

"Is this amusing to you?" Moriarty asked, squinting at her as she shrugged. "You'll have to forgive me, but I'm not used to my presence warranting humor."

"But you think you're rather funny, don't you?" Charlotte asked, eyebrows inching up ever so slightly. "You like to play with your food before you devour it. Like the witch in the wood or the wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Do you think I'll have devoured you by the time all is said and done?" Moriarty wondered, clearly intrigued.

"I think I'd be dead if you wanted me dead," Charlotte replied plainly. "But you don't want me dead…" The gears in her mind turned slowly.

Moriarty's mouth spread into a wide grin, seeing it happen. He placed his elbows on the table and tented his fingers in front of his face, watching her intently. "Go on, Charlotte," he urged.

"You're not going to tell me your story," Charlotte murmured as soon as it occurred to her. "You want me to tell it for you." She appraised him with curiosity. "Why not tell it yourself?"

Moriarty simply watched her.

Realization washed over Charlotte gradually. "You think you're going to die," she claimed. She crossed her arms and settled back in her chair. "I hate to break it to you, but not even you can predict the future."

"It's a common fear," Moriarty sighed out.

"But you're not a common man," Charlotte reasoned, trying not to show her frustration as she tried to figure him out.

"That's sweet of you to say, Charlotte," Moriarty replied.

"So, I'm supposed to believe you want to be memorialized by me—a woman who barely knows you?" Charlotte demanded, feeling for the first time that she was a mere fly, tangled in a giant web.

"Nobody knows me," Moriarty stated, another smile arising on his face. "That's the beauty of it."

Charlotte stared at him across the table, her face falling slightly. "You don't want to devour me at all," she realized. "You want to consume me."

"And I will," Moriarty vowed, winking at her across the table. He moved to stand. "But I have faith in you, Charlotte. You'll figure me out eventually."

"What makes you so sure that I'll respect your wishes once you're gone?" Charlotte asked, rising to stand as well.

"Please," Moriarty snorted, letting out derisive chuckle. "I saw the way you looked at me in that court room, Charlotte." He stepped closer to her and then abruptly snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him and holding his face close to hers. "You won't be able to help yourself," he hissed, holding her gaze.

He leaned in and held his lips to her cheek, then pulled back and stepped away, straightening his suit jacket. He smiled pleasantly as if nothing had happened. "Rest well, Charlotte," he crooned. Then, his lips broke into a smirk. "I know I will." He turned left her standing there, stunned, as he disappeared back into the night.

Charlotte endured a tumultuous night of sleep, tossing and turning on the sofa. Each time she awoke from a troubled dream of Moriarty, she heard a sound in the flat that assured her Sherlock and John had returned. This sureness eventually dissolved into a fear of what else may be lurking, which kept her up for long intervals.

She had stayed successfully asleep for a couple hours when her alarm eventually blared, jarring her awake. Forgetting where she was for the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to envision that she was home in bed, waking up from a horrible day-long dream of the previous day. The air stung her tired eyes as she eventually pried them open and she looked around to see that the flat was exactly as it had been. Nothing disturbed that would indicate John or Sherlock had come back. Dragging herself up and into the bathroom, she began readying herself for a day of classes.

She stopped in at the cafe on the corner and ordered a coffee in the largest cup they kept in stock, sucking it down as she made her way toward the Tube. Fighting sleep on the train was no easy feat, but she accomplished it by thinking about her conversation with Moriarty the night before. Before heading off to bed, she had written down everything she could remember of their riddled dialogue, not wanting to forget.

The walk across campus seemed to awaken her some, whether it was the exercise or the cold air in her face. As she neared her classroom, she noticed the lingering eyes of passersby, many of them wearing what she could have mistaken as sympathetic expressions. It was strange, indeed—but perhaps she looked as disheveled as she felt.

It was only when she opened the classroom door that she understood something to be terribly wrong. Each of her peers turned to look at her as if shocked by her very presence.

"Charlotte," her professor said in a tone she didn't recognize, it being so different than her usual gruff. She walked forward and took her student gently by the shoulder, leading her into as secluded a corner as she could manage.

"What's going on?" Charlotte questioned, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. "Wh-why is everyone being so…?"

"Charlotte, have you seen the news this morning?" her professor asked.

"N-no, I…"

"Charlotte, dear, there's been an…incident," the professor told her. "At St. Bart's."

"An incident," Charlotte repeated, her mouth suddenly full of cotton. "What kind of incident?"

"A man's stepped off the roof," the professor explained, trying to be as delicate as such an event could allow. "It was Sherlock Holmes."

Charlotte didn't need to ask to know that he was dead. It was the only thing that could explain the reactions of her classmates and the insurmountable sinking feeling that had overtaken her entire body. Her breathing came in short gasps and she felt herself falling, sliding to the floor of the lecture hall. She felt the stability of the wall behind her and leaned into it, finding it to be the only thing around her that remained unmoving. Her vision blurred and swirled as she was suffocated with her own panic.

She didn't know how much time had elapsed when she awoke in the campus infirmary, a cold flannel pressed to her head by the matronly nurse who worked there. Her eyes moved around the room and saw that her professor and a handful of her classmates stood by, at a respectful distance. Remembering the events of that morning, she sat up quickly.

"Easy there, love," the nurse urged. "You should have a lie down."

"I need to get to Baker Street," Charlotte stated, ignoring her completely as she thought of Mrs. Hudson and John. "Does anyone have a car?" She looked at the students assembled around her.

"I do," one of them spoke up, stepping forward. It was Jeremy, the Irish bloke who was second in their class behind Charlotte. "I'll give you a lift."

Charlotte swung her legs off the table and stood, despite the nurse's objections. Jeremy grabbed her bicep tightly as she wavered, helping her stay upright. "Good to go?" he asked, looking into her face.

"Good to go," Charlotte replied, though still feeling quite concussed.

They made their way across campus as quickly as Charlotte's jellied legs would take her. "I really appreciate this," she told him as he opened her car door for her.

"No need to thank me," Jeremy assured her, throwing his rucksack in the back seat before rushing around to the driver's side. "I'm just happy to be doing something to help."

"How long was I out?" Charlotte wondered, realizing she had forgotten her bag and phone in the process of rushing out.

"About an hour," Jeremy told her, driving out of student parking.

"An hour?" Charlotte demanded, gripping her forehead as it throbbed. "God, they've probably been trying to reach me—and I've forgotten my phone."

"No you haven't," Jeremy informed her. "I threw your purse in my bag. How can you possibly get by bringing so little to class with you?" He rummaged around in the back, keeping his eyes on the road as he dragged the purse into Charlotte's lap.

Charlotte didn't feel like explaining her circumstances of the night before to him. Instead, she pulled her phone out and studied the screen through squinted eyes, the light feeling harsh. She had a smattering of missed calls from Mrs. Hudson and texts and calls from John. As she scrolled through the messages, she saw them grow increasingly grim. When her eyes landed on the last one in the string, they welled with hot tears. 'Sherlock's dead.' was all the message read. It had come from John some hours before, potentially right after the event itself.

She angled her body toward the window to hide the fact that she was crying from Jeremy. Blinking tears from her eyes so she could see her screen, she sent a simple text back to John: 'On my way to Baker Street.' She sniffed as quietly as she could manage and swiped a hand quickly under her nose.

"There's a hanky in the glove box," Jeremy told her.

She could tell by the way he said it he was trying to make it sound off-hand, as if they were out for a Sunday drive and he thought to tell her. "Thank you," she was able to rasp out. She clicked the compartment open and fished out a very bright yellow handkerchief. Charlotte clutched it in her shaking fingers and dabbed at her eyes and nose.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jeremy said simply in his brogue. "And I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did—it was lousy."

"Is there a good way to find out?" Charlotte asked weakly, not really expecting an answer. Jeremy was decidedly silent.

"This is some handkerchief," Charlotte said, wanting to talk about something—anything—else. She folded the article over itself in her lap, inspecting the orange embroidery on one corner that bore his initials. "Quite loud."

Jeremy snorted softly. "My mum stitched it for me herself—used my favorite colors, or so she says," he admitted, an eye-roll implied. "My dad gave me the car, and she tucked it in the glove box as somewhat of a going away present."

"Guess you never know when you'll need one," Charlotte had to credit his mother.

"Exactly what she said," Jeremy responded, cracking a small smile. "I'm just grateful she didn't insist I carry it around in my breast pocket."

Charlotte tried to muster a laugh, but couldn't quite pull one out of herself. She was once again reminded that her world had just been turned upside down. Her eyes welled and spilled over and leaned toward her window. Luckily, they were only a few blocks away now.

"I'll keep notes for you," Jeremy blurted, perhaps not knowing what else to say. "You know, for classes. Won't be a problem so, er, take all the time you need."

Charlotte nodded and sniffed loudly, no point in concealing it anymore. "Thank you," she replied thickly. She used the handkerchief once more. "Means a lot, considering this would be an opportune time to snag the number one spot."

Jeremy chuckled and shook his head. "No honor in that," he told her. "Besides, the fun part would be beating you at your best." He slowed the car about a block from Baker Street, unable to get closer because of the mass of reporters and police vehicles amassed outside. He pulled up to the curb and put the car in park. "Do you want me to help you inside?" he asked. "Seems like a racket out here."

Charlotte shook her head. "You've already exceeded your kindness quota for today," she told him, turning to give him a genuine look. "Thank you." She reached out to return his handkerchief.

"You can hang onto that," Jeremy assured her.

"Never know when I'll need it," Charlotte said with a fleeting smile as she closed her hand around it.

"Don't forget your purse," Jeremy reminded her, nodding at it where it sat at her feet.

Charlotte nodded, retrieving it. Drawing in a long breath, she tucked her phone inside and pulled the door handle. "I'll see you in class," she told Jeremy, opening the door and clambering onto the sidewalk.

"Sure thing," Jeremy replied. "Let me know if I can help out in any way."

Charlotte closed her car door and watched him drive away, feeling as if she were stuck in a horrible dream. She watched the reporters from afar, enjoying her last few moments undetected while she could. Blowing out her breath, she put her head down and trudged toward the waiting steps of 221 Baker Street.

In her single stroke of luck for that morning, Lestrade intercepted her right as she entered the throng of camera flashes and clamoring voices. The mere sight of a familiar face set Charlotte weeping, hiding her face behind Jeremy's handkerchief. Lestrade wrapped a protective arm around her, shielding her from the reporters and muffling their sounds with his jacket beside her ear. Even so, she could still hear them:

 _"_ _Did you believe James Moriarty to be real?"_

 _"_ _Charlotte, were you in on the ruse?"_

 _"_ _Does Sherlock Holmes' suicide prove he was a fraud?"_

They fought their way to the top of the stoop and stole away inside, the door shutting firmly behind them. "They don't take a day off, do they?" Lestrade growled, releasing Charlotte as soon as they were safely inside. "Absolutely no consideration. I'm glad John told me you were coming, or they may have eaten you alive."

"Heavens!" Mrs. Hudson's voice broke through Charlotte's stupor. She soon found herself in the landlady's vice-grip of a hug. The much shorter woman blubbered into her coat. "You had us worried, dear."

Charlotte wrapped her arms around her with what little strength her limbs held, tears still leaking out of her own eyes. She gazed at Lestrade blankly, glancing down at Mrs. Hudson and back again.

"We thought something had happened to you," Lestrade answered her unspoken question, looking at her seriously. "When John wasn't able to get ahold of you…"

"I-I was at school," Charlotte stammered out. "I passed out when…when I heard." She swallowed the large lump that had gathered in her throat. "Woke up an hour later in the infirmary."

Lestrade nodded, his face solemn. "That's the one solace in this, I suppose," he uttered, staring down at his shoes.

"Where is John?" Charlotte asked.

"In the kitchen," Lestrade answered. "Giving his full statement."

"Statement?" Charlotte questioned, the concept not registering.

"He…he saw the whole thing," Lestrade informed her, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Charlotte's blood ran icy as she gaped at the policeman.

"Oh, it must've been horrible," Mrs. Hudson whimpered, finally releasing Charlotte. She stepped back and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"I need to see him," Charlotte eked out, walking with purpose toward the kitchen.

She walked through the doorway to see John sitting at the head of the kitchen table, two officers on either side of him with their notepads out, scribbling away. He looked like he had been through hell—and Charlotte surmised he had come close. His eyes had a glazed look to them as he stared down at the grain on the wooden table, unseeing.

"John," Charlotte spoke, practically in a whisper.

John's head snapped up, as if waking. "Charlotte," he uttered back, scrambling to stand. "Charlotte, thank God." He shoved his empty chair aside as he clambered around the table toward her.

Charlotte met him halfway and they embraced. Her shoulders shook as hot tears poured out of her again. It was all too surreal for her—but she had to imagine what John felt was tenfold. As they held each other, he was solid as a rock; the only evidence she had that he was crying at all was the occasional sniff he emitted.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed into the doctor's shoulder. And she really was. For what he had seen, for worrying him, for not being there sooner. "I…"

"No," John stopped her, pulling back and using a hand to wipe his eyes quickly. He straightened up and looked into her face. "No apologizing. I'm just glad you're here—and that you're okay. Had me worried sick. I thought somehow Moriarty had…" He shook his head. "I really didn't know what to think."

"Has anyone found him?" Charlotte questioned intently. She brought the handkerchief to her face, mopping at her cheeks.

John looked at her vacantly for a beat, realization slowly washing over him. "You don't know, do you?" he asked gently.

"Know what?" Charlotte demanded.

"He's dead," John stated. "Blew his brains out on top of St. Bart's."

Charlotte blinked. It should have made perfect sense, given her conversation with Moriarty the night before, but somehow that rendered it less believable. "That can't be. Why would he do that?"

John snorted and shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. "If I had any idea what went on in that man's head, I'd be the Commissioner over at Scotland Yard."

Charlotte mopped at her face absentmindedly with her handkerchief, her mind slowly processing.

"Where did you get that?" John asked suddenly.

Charlotte gave him a strange look when she realized he was staring at her handkerchief."My classmate," she answered. She stared down at the initials emblazoned on the fabric, understanding overcoming her as she saw them—'J.M.' "Jeremy Murphy," she explained. "He gave me a lift over here."

John's face relaxed and he let out a beleaguered sigh. "Right," he responded sensibly. "Of course. Sorry." He put a hand to his forehead, the fatigue radiating off of him.

"I'll let you finish up here," Charlotte said, nodding at John and then the officers. "You need some rest."

John nodded somberly, backing away from her and going to rejoin the officers.

Charlotte turned and left the kitchen. She bypassed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, not wanting to speak to anyone. She climbed the stairs and entered the upstairs flat, closing the door behind her. For a moment, she just stood there, looking around at the familiar space. Then, she began to slowly walk around, taking it all in just as it was. Some part of her knew that John wouldn't stay there—and how could he? In a number of weeks, the flat would be unrecognizable, cleaned and ready for new tenants.

She let out a heavy sigh as she came to stand in front of the window, her brain in turmoil. She would let the grief in, let it run through her like a river if she had to; all she knew was that it couldn't last long. She needed her mind sharp if she was going to tell Moriarty's story—sift through the red herrings and riddles to get to the truth.

As she stood there, staring out onto Baker Street, she knew exactly why Moriarty had so much confidence in her. He had entrusted her with this final task, knowing that unraveling the story of James Moriarty would be the only certain way to vindicate Sherlock Holmes.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Hi readers! Thanks for tuning in. The conversation between Charlotte and Moriarty was one of my biggest off-plot additions yet-and a tough one to get right. Please let me know what you thought in the comments :)**

 ***Before jumping into 'The Empty Hearse' I may interject a few scenes from the two years we don't get to see in the show. Please comment or DM me if you have any moments you wish you could see play out (Charlotte included).* Thanks!**


	13. The Empty Hearse

_Two years later._

Charlotte sat in her office, which was no larger than an average broom closet. She had to count her blessings, though, considering the other psychology associates at Scotland Yard had to share their space—a point of constant contention. In the beginning, she had tried to give up the spot, not liking the status it communicated. However, once work had officially begun, she savored her time in silence.

She used the odd end of a pen to scratch the side of her head, her eyes fixed on the case file in front of her. It was a tricky one—a man who had murdered three women, no motive or pattern. She had sat with him in prison that morning, able to get next to nothing out of him.

There was a knock at her door, but Charlotte scarcely looked up. "Yes?" she questioned.

"There's a gentleman here to see you," the office administrator's voice said from the other side of her door.

Charlotte exhaled, lifting her head to look at his hazy figure on the other side of the frosted glass. "I'm a bit busy at the moment, Jonah," she replied. "Tell him to try back later or leave a message with you."

"Yes, ma'am," Jonah responded.

Charlotte put her head down and got back to work, but only for a brief time before her door was being knocked again.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, Jonah?" Charlotte answered, trying not to make the exasperation in her voice too evident.

"Ma'am, he's quite insistent," Jonah informed her. "He won't take no for an answer. Says he's an old friend."

"I don't have any old friends," Charlotte replied dryly. "If he gives you any more grief, let one of the officers know. They'll happily escort him out."

"Yes, ma'am," Jonah responded, sounding harassed.

When a third disturbance met Charlotte's ears, she looked up, taking her reading glasses off in aggravation and setting them down on her desk. "Jonah—" But she could see instantly that it wasn't Jonah who stood on the other side of the glass. In that brief moment of recognition, she felt paralyzed; then, the familiar heat of anger rose inside her.

"Not Jonah," a familiar voice said, her door opening. "And am I to call you ma'am now?" Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway in front of her, his face partially obscured by his high collar and a hat.

Charlotte barely flinched, having boiled down her rage to an icy indifference. "We must improve our security measures around here," she said levelly. "You look like someone who really shouldn't be allowed in unauthorized."

"Oh, don't blame the boy," Sherlock urged, closing the door behind him and removing his obstructions. "I convinced him I was your boyfriend—that I'd gotten facial reconstructive surgery and I wanted you to be the first one to see it."

"He knows my boyfriend," Charlotte replied, looking confused. "He works here."

"Fine, so I slipped by once he had his back turned," Sherlock admitted, rolling his eyes. Then, his attention grabbed by something else: "Boyfriend?"

Charlotte sighed and popped her reading glasses back on, looking up at Sherlock with a quietly vexed expression. "I have a caseload, you know. Not a small one," she stated. "If you want to make an appointment, take it up with Jonah. He keeps my schedule." She averted her eyes back down to the file in front of her, continuing to read.

Sherlock looked as if she had slapped him, at a loss for words. After John's reaction, he thought nothing would ground him quite so much—but he had been wrong.

While she ignored him, he studied her. She wore a heather gray pantsuit, buttoned over a forest green blouse. Her copper hair was pulled back and pinned into a high bun. The reading glasses were new and heavy-framed in black. It was as if she had jumped light years ahead; no longer the bright-eyed university student, but a seasoned professional. But there was more to it than the dress and hair. The girlishness he remembered had been replaced by a more mature, authoritative air. The smile she usually had for him had evaporated, in its place a set jaw and hard eyes.

"Charlotte—"

"Surprised that I'm not surprised?" she wondered, writing a note calmly in the margin of her page. "Expected a bit more of a scene?"

"Lestrade got to you," Sherlock guessed lamely, not having been thinking about it at all.

Charlotte snorted derisively down at her desk. She lifted her face to look at him, taking her glasses off and holding them in her hand. "'An Analysis of James Moriarty: Arch-Rival of Sherlock Holmes.' The name of my master's thesis," she recited, as if reminding him.

"It was a complete psychoanalysis of him—complete with his obsession with you," she went on. "I exposed his entire plan. I vindicated you—you're welcome, by the way—and, in doing so gave rise to an entire sub-culture of fanatics who claim they can prove you lived, using my publication as if it were the Old Testament." She narrowed her eyes at him in apparent disdain. "So, yeah, Lestrade got to me."

"Nothing in your paper eludes to the fact that I lived," Sherlock countered, cautiously argumentative.

"It does everything but," Charlotte replied strongly. "I claimed you knew about the set up well ahead of time. When has Sherlock Holmes ever been backed into a corner?"

"How did I do it, then?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," Charlotte snapped. "And I don't care. I just knew it was possible." She slid her glasses back on and returned to poring over the pages on her desk.

"Charlotte, I had to," Sherlock tried to explain. "You don't—"

"Oh, I understand perfectly. Did you even read my paper?" Charlotte interjected sharply, not looking up. "Hits on their lives. A code-word only Moriarty knew. What other choice did you have than to disappear for two years?" she scoffed.

"You kept this from John," Sherlock stated, as if trying to get facts straight as his mind reeled. "You've known as long as you've known and you never told him."

"No," Charlotte responded, shaking her head. "I found the sting of abandonment to be worse than grief. I wouldn't put that on John."

Once again, Sherlock felt leveled, as if the wind had been knocked out of him by her words alone.

"I'd like you to go now," Charlotte told him, her voice like ice.

"Charlotte—"

"I'll call for back-up," she interjected. "Out."

Sherlock swallowed hard and dipped his chin to her in silent farewell. He popped his collar and replaced the hat on his head, backing toward the door. He half hoped she would look up, at least to see that he was really leaving, but her attention was focused solely on her work. He turned and exited her office, closing the door with a hushed click behind him.

* * *

That evening, Charlotte found herself on John and Mary's doorstep, clutching Jeremy's hand in hers. "You're squeezing a little tight, love," her boyfriend said to her. "I might lose a digit."

"Sorry," Charlotte apologized, running her free hand through her hair. "I just…"

"It's going to be all right," Jeremy reassured her, turning to look down into her face. "He'll be shocked, sure, but—" He was cut off as Mary answered the door.

"Charlotte, Jeremy," she chirped. "What a pleasant surprise. Is John expecting you?"

"Er, no," Charlotte answered. "Just thought we would drop in." She smiled, but it felt more like she was gritting her teeth.

Mary appraised her with curiosity. "You know, don't you?" she questioned in that knowing way she had.

" _You_ know?" Charlotte returned, her brow furrowing.

Mary bobbed her eyebrows. "He crashed our dinner date last night," she admitted.

"You're kidding," Charlotte responded, looking disbelieving. "In public? Did John—?"

"Beat the living snot out of him? Tried to," Mary replied, snorting. "Come in." She stepped aside, beckoning them into their home. Turning her head, she hollered up the stairs. "John!"

John made his way down the stairs, looking surprised to see Jeremy and Charlotte standing in his living room. "Jeremy, Charlotte. Were we—?"

"You find out Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead and you don't think to tell me?" Charlotte cut him off, giving him a dumfounded look.

John's face fell immediately. "He came to see you," he said, stating the obvious.

"Yeah," Charlotte responded, bobbing her head. "Barged into my office this afternoon."

"Oh, God," John lamented, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Charlotte, I'm sorry. The shock must have been just awful."

Charlotte waved him off. "It was fine," she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. "I would have liked to know beforehand, though. Be prepared."

"Fine," John echoed. "Fine?" He cocked his head to the side, squinting his eyes at her as he worked it out. "Did you—I'm sorry—did you know?"

Charlotte suddenly realized her error in pointing a finger at John. "Well, I…I…"

"I can't believe this!" John exclaimed. "Am I the only one he didn't tell?"

"He didn't tell me," Charlotte countered. "I had my own suspicions…"

"I really can't believe this," John sighed out heavily, turning to walk toward the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.

"Jeremy, I was just about to go 'round the corner for some take-away before you two arrived. Care to join me?" Mary wondered, always tactful.

"I'd love to, Mary," Jeremy replied, nodding. He moved to open the door for her.

"Be back in ten," Mary told Charlotte, the corners of her mouth turning up in a comforting sort of way.

Once they had left, Charlotte let out a sigh of her own and followed after John. He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a finger of scotch. "I'll have one too, please," she requested in a defeated sort of way.

John glanced up at her grouchily, but got another glass down from the cupboard. He slid it across the counter to her.

Charlotte lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip, letting it slide down her throat and burn into her stomach. "I'm sorry," she told him earnestly.

"That you kept this from me or that I found out?" John asked adversarially.

"That you found out," Charlotte admitted openly, swishing the liquor around in her glass. She stared down and watched it whirlpool.

"At least you're honest about that," John grumbled. He drank his scotch down in one go, looking as though it soothed him. He put his glass back on the counter and poured himself another. "Within the span of 24 hours, I've learned that two of the people I've considered myself closest to have been keeping a very life-altering secret from me. How am I supposed to feel right now?"

"John…"

"We grieved him, Charlotte—together," he reminded her, the emotion thick in his voice. "When I tried to push everyone away, you wouldn't be pushed. It felt like we only had each other those first months."

Charlotte felt a lump rise in her throat while her eyes stung, remembering those times poignantly.

"And to find out you knew. All along, you knew—"

"I didn't," Charlotte contested, blinking back the tears. "Those months were real, John. I didn't know until toward the end of my research. A-and once we'd gone through that I couldn't bring myself to be the one to tell you it was for nothing." Her fingers quivered around her glass. "Once I knew how it felt to know that he chose this, that he abandoned us…I had to protect you from it."

John heaved out a sigh, staring into her face steadily while a few seconds ticked by. Eventually his expression broke open and softened. "Come here, then," he beckoned, waving her toward him. He opened his arms in the robotic way he had and she walked into them, hugging him tightly.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked over his shoulder.

"It's all right," John forgave, patting her on the back.

Charlotte stepped back, dabbing at her eyes and blowing out a held breath. "Pour me another scotch, will you?" she asked.

John smiled and shook his head, unstoppering the bottle and pouring her another serving. "So, he came to your office then?" he asked, glancing up at her curiously.

"Sure did," Charlotte scoffed, bobbing her eyebrows. "He's got a lot of nerve."

"I'll say," John seconded. "Interrupted my proposal to Mary."

Charlotte perked up, as if shot by lightning. "That's right," she said, thrilled. "That was last night, wasn't it?"

John nodded, unable to hide his grin.

"So, he didn't completely ruin the evening, I take it?" Charlotte wondered, bursting with anticipation.

John shook his head. "I asked her once we'd arrived home last night. She said yes," he informed her.

Charlotte clapped her hands together in front of her mouth, jumping up and down a couple times. "Oh, John, I'm so happy for you!" she congratulated.

"Thank you, Charlotte," John replied, grinning ear to ear now, despite himself.

"What did I tell you?" Charlotte asked, looking slightly smug. "I knew she'd say yes. You were nervous for nothing."

"Yeah, you let me know how collected you are the next time you ask someone to marry you," John guffawed.

Charlotte rolled her eyes and sipped her drink.

"So…you and Jeremy?" John wondered. "Is that happening anytime soon?"

Charlotte nearly sprayed him with scotch. "John, don't be ridiculous," she snorted. "We've only been together six months."

"I was only with Mary about six months when I knew," John responded with a teasing look. "Then again, it took me nearly a year to pluck up the courage and ask."

"Yes, but you and Mary are…"

"Perfect for each other? I know," John filled in smugly.

"I was going to say older," Charlotte informed him.

John snorted out a laugh.

"I just mean to say you're on a different timeline," Charlotte amended. "I'm not looking to get married anytime soon."

"You're twenty-seven," John said, as if reminding her. "Marriage isn't exactly unheard of at your age."

"You're freaking me out," Charlotte sing-songed. She sipped the rest of her drink in silence.

"So, what did he say to you?" John asked, his voice quietly curious. "Sherlock, I mean."

A bitter taste had come over Charlotte's mouth at the mere mention. "Not much," she informed him. "I wouldn't let him get many words in."

"Oh?" John questioned. "I would have loved to see that."

"I could barely look at him," Charlotte went on, staring glumly down into her glass. "I told him what I knew and kicked him out of my office."

John whistled through his teeth. "Don't mess with you," he quipped.

"Even though I knew he was still out there somewhere, I never thought he'd have the gall to waltz back in as if nothing had happened—as if we're all just supposed to accept it," Charlotte uttered.

"That's Sherlock for you," John stated, one side of his mouth slanting down. "Doesn't really get the human stuff, does he?"

"Not in the slightest," Charlotte replied.

"Mary thinks I should forgive and forget," John told her. "She said she 'likes him.'"

Charlotte looked mildly shocked. "He practically ruined your engagement and she 'likes him?'"

"Go figure," John responded, shaking his head. "I think she knows how much…you know, how much he means to me," he continued, looking slightly uncomfortable. "She knows I've missed him. Said she doesn't want me to miss out on a second chance that most people don't get."

Charlotte nodded, acknowledging the sentiment. "I almost wish I hadn't known," she admitted. "We're in very different spots, you and me. I've spent the past six months being so angry with him, I'm finding it hard to stop now."

"Do you think you ever will?" John asked genuinely.

Charlotte shrugged a shoulder. "Dunno," she answered honestly. "Right now I'm thinking maybe not."

John gave her an understanding look. "No matter how we both choose to go about this, you know I have your back, right?"

Charlotte smiled weakly at him. "'Course I know that," she responded.

From across the flat, they heard the front door open. "Food's up!" Jeremy called to them.

"More on this later," John assured her. As he passed her, he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Charlotte remained in the kitchen a minute longer, continuing to stare down into her glass with a troubled expression as she thought over what John had said.

"All good in here?" Jeremy's soft brogue met her ears.

Charlotte turned and smiled at the sight of him, cheeks slightly rosy from the cold. "All good," she assured him.

Jeremy moved nearer and took her in his arms, stooping to kiss her. "Hell of a day, huh?" he asked, gazing down at her with a sympathetic smile.

"Beyond," Charlotte chuckled softly. "I'm just glad I have you. You're very solid, you know that?"

"Solid," Jeremy responded, nodding and look not unpleased. "I'll take it."

Charlotte stood taller and pecked him on the cheek. "I love you," she told him. "Now, what did you order me?" she asked, breaking from him and walking toward the smell of food.

Jeremy snorted and shook his head, following her.

* * *

A few days later, Charlotte sat on the couch in her flat, clutching a cup of tea in her lap. Jeremy had gone out with some of their friends that evening, but Charlotte had elected to stay in. Everything that had happened in days previous with Sherlock's reappearance had her in a less-than-sociable mood. The truth was that she hadn't yet processed recent events, and that evening was the first chance she would have to do it in solitude.

As she lifted her mug to her lips to blow on her tea, she could hear her phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. She decidedly ignored it, figuring whatever it was could wait. However, once she had ignored the second call and her phone began to ring a third time, she got off the couch to answer—it was Mary.

"Charlotte?" her voice came over the handset. "Charlotte, is John with you?"

"No," Charlotte answered. "Is he supposed to be?"

"He had gone over to Baker Street to talk to Sherlock," Mary told her. "But that was hours ago. When I couldn't get ahold of him, I thought maybe he had gone over to yours afterwards."

"You can't get ahold of him?" Charlotte asked, thinking the behavior sounded rather unlike John.

"Hang on, I'm getting a text," Mary told her. "Could be him."

Charlotte waited on the other end of the line, chewing on a thumbnail. "Mary?" she questioned after a few seconds ticked by. "Is it him?"

"No," Mary answered, her voice tight. "I think someone's got him."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Charlotte demanded.

Mary read Charlotte the text in explanation.

Charlotte couldn't believe she was saying it, after two years without. "We have to get to Baker Street," she insisted. "Sherlock will know what to do."

"I'll head over now," Mary told her. "But your flat's closer. Can you brief him if I send you the text? Hopefully he'll be able to work it out by the time I catch up."

"Of course," Charlotte answered, nodding rapidly even though Mary couldn't see.

"See you soon, then," Mary confirmed, hanging up.

Charlotte hurried to her bedroom, stripping off her pajamas and throwing on whatever clothes were in reach. She practically sprinted down the stairs of her apartment complex and hailed a taxi out front.

As she sat in the back seat, bouncing one of her legs anxiously, she realized she would have to be alone with Sherlock before Mary could arrive. It was the last thing she wanted to be doing with her Friday night. She sighed, glancing out her window as the neighborhoods became more familiar—relics of a time she had all but shut off from her memory.

It was for John, she had to remind herself. Once John was safe back at home with Mary, she wouldn't have to deal with Sherlock at all. Even as she thought of it, some part of her knew it wouldn't be the truth. Sherlock was back, and that brought with it a certain set of circumstances.

"Here, ma'am?" the taxi driver asked, coming to a stop at the curb in front of 221B.

"Yes, thanks," Charlotte responded. She paid him and climbed out, pausing on the sidewalk as the cab sped away. She looked up at the building, transported back to a time when it had been her second home. The place where she had once found solace and a sense of belonging was now reduced to a bitter memory. She sucked in a deep breath and approached the door, positioning herself to lift the heavy knocker.

"Charlotte?"

She spun around at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Sherlock," she returned, caught completely off guard.

Sherlock approached from the sidewalk, looking as unprepared for the encounter as she was. "What are you doing here?"

"It's John," Charlotte stated, remembering in the same moment. "Mary hasn't heard from him. A-and she got these texts." She withdrew her phone, holding it out for him to see.

Sherlock reached for the phone, taking it in his possession and reading it intently.

"Mary seems to think it's some sort of code," Charlotte iterated. "She texted me while I was in the cab."

"Mary told you this?" Sherlock mused, giving her a look.

"Yeah, why?" Charlotte demanded, not seeing the point.

"You've lost your touch," Sherlock told her flippantly, turning on heel to return to the curb. He put his hand up to flag a taxi.

"Lost my touch?" Charlotte requested, looking at Sherlock's back with considerable disgruntlement.

Sherlock glanced back down at her phone in his hand before speaking again. "Of course it's code. In the old days, you would have seen that immediately—solved it, even."

"I feel the need to remind you I'm a psychologist, not a detective," Charlotte said in reply. "I forgive you for forgetting, of course. It's been a rather long time."

Sherlock let her dig roll right off his back, handing her her phone back. "Well, I suppose Scotland Yard isn't exactly the place where minds soar. I wouldn't be surprised if your brain had begun to atrophy."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "God, I'd forgotten you were like this," she scoffed. "What does the code say, Sherlock?"

"John is at St. James the Less," Sherlock informed her. "And according to the message, we have ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?" Charlotte demanded, eyes widening. "Is that even enough time to get there?"

Sherlock paused, his brain calculating at top speed. "It is if we select our transportation wisely," he answered. Without further explanation, he ran into the middle of the road, in front of a passing motorcycle. "Stop!" he shouted. "Police!"

The brakes on the motorcycle screeched and the couple occupying it jumped off in apparent confusion. Charlotte scurried out into the street.

"Hop on," Sherlock instructed, slinging his leg over the seat.

"What about Mary?" Charlotte fretted.

"Text her on the way," Sherlock suggested. "I think she'll forgive us for going ahead without her if it means her fiancé will live."

"Fair enough," Charlotte replied, hopping onto the back of the vehicle. "Helmets!" she suddenly exclaimed, beckoning the motorcyclists forward. "Quickly."

"There's no time for that," Sherlock insisted, clearly impatient.

"Yes, there is," Charlotte asserted. "I'd not like to have my brains littering the street, thank you." She graciously accepted the helmets handed to her. She put her own on and then roughly yanked the other onto Sherlock's head.

"Shall we?" Sherlock drawled sarcastically, kicking the bike to life and speeding off down the road, nearly throwing Charlotte off the back.

The two of them made it to the church with a minute to spare. "John!" Sherlock called, as soon as they arrived. He took off running across the lawn toward a group of people standing around a bonfire.

Charlotte followed closely on his heels. "John!" she echoed. She looked around frantically, knowing their time was running out. "Sherlock, where is he?" she called to the sleuth, a few feet ahead of her. It was hard to hear at that point, given the sounds of excitement coming from the bonfire crowd as the pyre was lit.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, looking just as stressed.

The climbing flame caught Charlotte's eyes and her mind came alive. "The bonfire," she gasped out, starting toward it suddenly.

"Charlotte, what're you—?" Sherlock's words were cut off mid-sentence and his eyes widened as Charlotte began to pull pieces of debris from the flaming heap.

"He's in here, he's got to be!" Charlotte shouted to Sherlock. She leaned in closer and tried to peer through into the heart of the pyre. "John!" she called. "John!"

"Look out!" Sherlock advised, seeing a burning object tumbling off the top of the stack toward Charlotte. He ran forward and, grabbing her around the waist, pulled her out of harm's way. As soon as the danger had passed, he took over forging a hole in the bonfire, racing against the overtaking flames.

As soon as Charlotte saw John's arm protruding from beneath, she rushed forward and began to pull him out. The onlookers watched in horror as she and Sherlock dragged John onto the grass, wheezing and coughing from smoke inhalation.

"Are you okay?" Charlotte asked in concern, furrowing her brow as she looked down at her friend.

"Fine," John was able to cough out.

"Oh my God!" Mary's voice came from behind them. Charlotte looked over her shoulder to see John's fiancée running toward them. "John!"

As soon as Mary had crouched down beside John, Charlotte moved off to the side. She extended one of her arms behind her and slouched back with a relieved sigh. She used her free hand to rub at her forehead, feeling it gritty with soot.

"I don't often eat my words," Sherlock said, standing above her. He handed a handkerchief down to her. "But you most certainly have not lost your touch. That was quick thinking."

"Thank you," Charlotte replied begrudgingly, accepting the handkerchief to blot the soot from her face.

"I should get him to hospital," Mary stated. "Just to make sure everything's all right."

"I'm fine," John insisted. "I don't have to go to the—"

"Oh yes, you most certainly do," Mary interjected. It was clear she would not take no for an answer.

Charlotte rose to stand, brushing herself off.

Sherlock helped Mary with John, easing him up onto his feet and supporting him as he hobbled toward the car park.

After John was safely tucked into Mary's car, Mary turned to Sherlock and Charlotte. "Thank you," she told them both sincerely. She embraced them both in turn. "Get home safe, all right?"

"Right," Charlotte replied stiffly, realizing she would once again be left alone with Sherlock. The adrenaline of the rescue had worn off and was replaced by familiar resentment. "Let us know how John gets on, will you?"

Charlotte and Sherlock waved Mary and John off and then walked in silence back toward the abandoned motorcycle. Charlotte wavered on the curb. "I can get a cab from here," she stated.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, as if having expected her to say it. "I can give you a lift home."

Though Charlotte didn't relish the idea, she knew she should save the fare. "Okay," she consented with a a quick nod.

"Although, Barking is quite a ways off. I ought to charge," Sherlock quipped as he handed her her helmet.

"As if you didn't know I'd moved," Charlotte snorted. "As if you don't know my new address."

Sherlock looked impassive.

"Come off it," Charlotte insisted, giving him a look. "I know you and Mycroft have been in contact, you don't have to play this game anymore."

"How would Mycroft know you'd moved?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Mycroft knows everything," Charlotte answered. "You know, even apart from our weekly teas. He has people to find these things out."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock wondered pointedly, giving her a strange look.

"I mean he's a bloody government official. He's got—"

"No, weekly teas. What do you mean by weekly teas?" Sherlock questioned, squinting as if he couldn't quite comprehend what he was hearing.

Charlotte understood he wasn't being patronizing—he was genuinely confused. "Mycroft and I have been having tea once a week since you…Well, since I thought you…"

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"You had just committed suicide," Charlotte stated, the answer plain as day to her. "Mycroft isn't exactly surrounded by friends. I…I didn't want him to be alone."

"And he let you do that?" Sherlock questioned, stunned. "Have 'tea' with him." He said tea as if it were some dirty word.

"Yep," Charlotte answered simply, popping the 'p.'

"But why wouldn't he tell me that?" Sherlock demanded.

"Search me," Charlotte replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Maybe he didn't want you to know he was lonely."

"Mycroft knows I don't care about that sort of thing," Sherlock was quick to counter. "No, it must have been something else…"

"Well, I'll let you sort that one out on your own," Charlotte said, bobbing her eyebrows. "You were going to give me a lift home?"

Sherlock nodded, but his mind still appeared to be elsewhere.

"Let me drive," Charlotte offered. "It'll give you some time with your thoughts." She was surprised when Sherlock didn't protest, and took the keys from him before he could change his mind. She drove them home, actually enjoying the wind in her face this time around.

They arrived eventually in front of her building and she parked the motorcycle, cutting the engine. "Well, I guess this is good night," she announced unenthusiastically, climbing off the vehicle.

"I suppose I'll see you Tuesday, then?" Sherlock wondered, looking over at her where she stood on the curb.

"What?" Charlotte questioned, her brow furrowing.

"When you come 'round to see Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reminded her. "She mentioned you two have a standing appointment. Seems you have tea with everyone these days."

"Oh," Charlotte replied, choosing to ignore his comment. "No, we usually don't meet at Baker Street. Come to think of it, I'll probably have to have her meet me somewhere closer to work."

"Right. Work," Sherlock said, the eye roll implied.

Charlotte thought not to engage, but her anger was boiling over. "It's a prestigious placement, you know," she informed him sharply. "I had to work really hard to get it. Only the top two of my class were accepted into their trainee program."

Sherlock absorbed the information, but stuck to his guns. "I seem to recall you saying the Scotland Yard lot 'weren't your people,'" Sherlock posited, cocking his head to the side in mock confusion.

"And I seem to remember you shoving me toward them," Charlotte snapped. "That was our last interaction, wasn't it? You forcing me to choose Scotland Yard? And here you are, upset that I followed through."

"That wasn't our last interaction," Sherlock reminded her, some of his bravado gone. He glanced away, unable to meet her eyes as he said it.

"Don't," Charlotte ordered, glowering at him. "Just don't, Sherlock. It's been two years. A lot has changed and life hasn't stood still for the rest of us."

"You're angry with me," Sherlock said, resigned.

"Oh, well spotted," Charlotte scoffed, crossing her arms.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, upset at not knowing. "Why are you so angry with me?"

"You're the detective," Charlotte reminded him icily. "You figure it out."

"Charlotte, you know emotion has never been my strong—"

"I don't care," Charlotte cut him off. "I don't…" She closed her eyes and let out a beleaguered sigh, drawing her fingers across her eyelids to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm not getting into this. I came out tonight to help John and that's done."

"Very well," Sherlock responded tightly, neglecting to look at her.

"Good night, Sherlock," Charlotte offered flatly, turning and letting herself into the building without so much as a glance back.

* * *

"I just don't understand it, John," Sherlock confided.

The doctor had come to Baker Street the day after the bonfire to speak with Sherlock. Once they had parsed through their own differences, Sherlock found himself hoping John would be able to give him some advice.

John perked up at Sherlock's statement. "You don't understand something?" he questioned, looking dubious. "And you're asking me?"

"It's Charlotte," Sherlock explained, trying not to seem as invested as he most certainly was. He tented his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "She's incredibly angry with me."

"That's very good," John commended, nodding. "What do you need my help for?" He fought back a snarky smile.

Sherlock shot him a peeved look. "Yes, have your fun," he allowed, rolling his eyes. He sighed heavily. "What I can't seem to work out is why she's still angry with me. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—piece of cake. They all welcomed me back with open arms."

"And me?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow and sitting forward in his seat. "I'm interested to know how you think I've received you."

"Well, you have had to try your best not to clobber me on several occasions—and were somewhat successful," Sherlock replied, his lips curling up. "But here you are."

"I haven't forgiven and forgotten," John told him, trying to impart how serious he was.

"But Mary will talk you 'round," Sherlock responded.

"Will she?" John wondered, eyebrows rising.

"Yes, I expect so," Sherlock replied with certainty. "Maybe I should speak with Mary about Charlotte…"

"Look, Sherlock, it's not rocket science," John reasoned.

"Of course this isn't rocket science," Sherlock agreed, looking perplexed. "Why would I be coming to you for advice on rocket science?"

"Right. Forgot who I was talking to for a second," John said. He cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair slightly. "Think about Charlotte's past, Sherlock. Her parents chucked her first chance they got—that would make anyone shy of relying on people."

"But she knows she can rely on us," Sherlock said, looking unconvinced of John's logic.

"She knows she can rely on me," John replied, his voice slow and deliberate. "She can rely on Mrs. Hudson, Mary, even Lestrade—"

"Lestrade's an ass, no one can rely on Lestrade," Sherlock interjected.

John gave him a look of reprimand. "You fell off the face of the earth two years ago, Sherlock," he continued, a slight edge to his voice. "She found out before most of us that you deceived us all on purpose. She's had time to feel and stew over that abandonment. The rest of us haven't."

"I didn't abandon her," Sherlock retorted. "I didn't abandon any of you. Mycroft kept me perfectly informed…" He trailed off as he saw the increasingly displeased look on John's face.

"Not the same," the doctor said simply.

Sherlock sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments. "Did you know that Charlotte's been having tea with my Mycroft?" he asked, already onto the next line of inquiry.

"Yeah, I did," John confirmed. "Weekly thing, isn't it?"

"Don't you think that's odd?" Sherlock wondered.

"I think Charlotte's a saint," John replied with a bob of his eyebrows. "Even kept it up all those months she knew you were still alive. Must have killed her to sit across from him and act like she knew nothing of the sort."

"Must have killed her, period," Sherlock insisted. "Spending time with my brother—every seven days." He made a face. "I don't think I could stomach it myself."

"I dunno," John mused, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't think she hated it every week. I reckon she looked forward to it sometimes."

"Looked forward?" Sherlock spluttered, clearly perturbed.

"Didn't Mycroft tell you all this?" John asked. "You two were in communication."

"He told me nothing about this," Sherlock responded.

"Oh, I see what this is, then," John acknowledged.

"Do you?" Sherlock questioned, looking hopefully at his friend.

"You're jealous," John surmised. "You think Charlotte's switched Holmeses."

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock followed quickly, squinting at John.

John gave his friend a funny sort of look, thinking his behavior erratic. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Fine," Sherlock grunted. "I just think it odd that my brother would have kept this from me—and I hate not knowing things."

"Nothing to do but ask him," John stated plainly. "What harm can it do?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's like you don't even know Mycroft."

John chuckled. "Who will it be then—Mycroft or Charlotte? As your friend, I must insist you speak to one of them before it eats you from the inside out."

Sherlock sat in contemplative silence, letting out a sigh as his shoulders sagged. "Perhaps you could talk to Charlotte for me. You know, bring her 'round."

"No, I won't do that," John replied firmly. "I've told her I'll respect her decision. I won't try to change her mind."

"Well, aren't you two chummy," Sherlock said with a hint of distaste.

"What has gotten into you?" John asked. "Usually, you could give a damn what other people think, or you just brush it off."

"I don't know, John," Sherlock replied with an exasperated sigh and a frown. "I suppose I just thought everything would be exactly as it was."

"You know I sometimes forget how very thick you can be," John told him, and not to insult. "I suppose you do need me around."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, unsuccessful in holding back his smile.

"Now, what were you saying about trains?" John wondered.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Thanks for reading :) I weirdly loved writing the initial scene between Charlotte and Sherlock, so PLEASE let me know what you thought. Was she too harsh? Was it exactly what you were expecting? Do you think they can ever go back to the way it was? Leave a comment if you have some feelings. xo**

 ***I'm still planning on adding in some scenes from the time between The Reichenbach Fall and The Empty Hearse (aka, the time when Sherlock is "dead"), so stay tuned for those! If you would like to see anything play out that we didn't get to see in the series, please DM or comment with your suggestion(s).***


	14. A Sign of Three: Part I

"Charlotte, you look ravishing!" Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands together from her perch on the fitting-room couch.

Charlotte did a turn in front of the mirror, looking significantly less thrilled than Mary. The dress was floor length, strapless, with a mermaid-like shape. "I think you've had too much champagne," she told the bride-to-be. "This color washes me out."

"Well, the color is the one thing you cannot change," Mary told her. "All the other bridesmaids are wearing it. It's in our color scheme." She took a gulp of champagne and pointed at the dress. "That's the one Janine's wearing."

"I'm not saying it's a bad color, Mary," Charlotte reassured her friend. "And of course it would look good on Janine. She's got that lovely olive skin. I'm just saying… I don't know. It's not looking quite right."

"What's wrong with you?" Mary wondered openly, having sensed a dark cloud hanging over Charlotte. "You've been rather down in the dumps recently."

"It's this whole Jeremy business," Charlotte admitted candidly. "I thought we would be attending your wedding together, you know? Every time I think I've coped, it seems like something comes up and knocks me off kilter."

Mary looked sympathetic. "Have you spoken to him?"

Charlotte shook her head. "We promised we wouldn't do that—it would only make it harder." She frowned at herself in the mirror. "Besides, he's busy with his new job in Dublin and work here has been absolutely catastrophic minus one psychologist on staff."

"I'm still a bit peeved with him, if you want the truth," Mary confessed. "Up and leaving you like he did? Still doesn't sit well with me. There's no way Dublin could be a greater draw than—"

"Mary, can we not go down this rabbit hole?" Charlotte requested. She gingerly adjusted the skirt of the dress and inspected the back of it in the mirror. "He's always kept one eye on Ireland. I don't think he ever intended to stay here, and I wasn't about to relocate." She sighed heavily. "It is what it is."

Mary sat back into the sofa with a disgruntled sigh. "It's his loss, you know," she commented.

"I think we both lost something," Charlotte attested, one side of her mouth slanting down. "We were best friends."

"Lucky you have us then, isn't it?" Mary stated, going for a more cheery outlook. "John and me absolutely adore you, Mrs. Hudson dotes on you as if you were her own blood, Lestrade sees you as his star pupil—even you and Sherlock seem to have made amends."

"As if we had any choice in the matter," Charlotte snorted, giving Mary a playful look through the mirror.

It was true that in the months since Sherlock's return, the two of them had worked their way back—albeit slowly—to something resembling friendship. There was still a hesitancy to their interactions, but lately they hadn't had the option to be hesitant. Both of them had been pushed feet first into wedding planning, at Mary's insistence.

"It's hard to avoid someone who shares your same pair of best friends." She bobbed her eyebrows in a presuming sort of way. "Especially when one of those friends is pushing rather hard…"

Mary giggled, guilty as charged. "Oh, I couldn't help myself," she confessed. "It was too hard seeing the two of you at odds. Bothered John too, if he'd ever admit it."

"Have you been conspiring with Mrs. Hudson?" Charlotte wondered, lifting an eyebrow.

"I've been sworn to secrecy," Mary said, zipping her lip.

"Since you're in the business of secrecy, can I tell you something?" Charlotte requested, biting the inside of her cheek nervously. Her mind had drifted back to their previous topic of conversation.

"When have I ever staved off a confession?" Mary returned, lips curling up. "Fire away."

Charlotte focused on herself in the mirror, knowing if she glanced at Mary she might lose her nerve. "I felt like…I mean, it seemed like…the more Sherlock and I patched things up, the closer we got, the more Jeremy pulled away. I saw it happening but I couldn't do anything to stop it."

Mary was quietly thoughtful for a beat. "Did you ever tell him about you and Sherlock?" she questioned.

Charlotte nodded slowly. "Yeah, I did," she answered. "I told him a few weeks after Sherlock had come back. He seemed to accept it in the moment, but…it's hard to say now, isn't it?"

"Charlotte—and I mean this in the most compassionate way because you know I liked Jeremy—but that's his problem," Mary offered sagely. "If he was threatened by your past, there's nothing you could have done. Jealousy breeds doubt and doubt breeds…well, break ups, I suppose."

"I know," Charlotte admitted softly, smiling weakly at Mary. "And thanks."

She then puffed up her cheeks, blowing out a breath. "All right, enough of the heart to heart. This is your big day we're preparing for and from here on out I promise to quit bringing the mood down."

"You know I'm always here for you, Lottie, my dear," Mary chirped. "But if you insist…" She grinned and stood from the sofa, walking over to the rack of bridesmaids dresses in varying shades of purple. "Okay, this one is lilac-adjacent," she determined, plucking one free. "If it's absolutely perfect, I'll allow it."

Charlotte swiped the hanger from her, looking intrigued. "Back in a dash," she said.

The second time Charlotte stepped out of the changing room, Mary was speechless. Charlotte looked at herself in the full-length mirror and decided this would have to be the one. It was on the border between lilac and lavender, floor length, with a neckline that met in a 'v' at her sternum. The chiffon on the top half of the dress had a wrapped appearance before it was segmented at the bottom of Charlotte's ribcage into a subtly sloping A-line skirt.

"Dammit, it's perfect," Mary proclaimed, trying to look upset. "You must get it."

Charlotte did a slow spin, the bottom of the skirt flouncing out as she did so. "I don't know, Mary," she fretted. Then, cracking an impish smile: "Wouldn't want to show you up on your big day."

"Bite your tongue before I make you get the other one," Mary teased, chuckling.

* * *

Charlotte sat at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table, finishing the remnants of her tea as the landlady moved about the room, carrying dishes to and from the sink.

Without warning, a gunshot sounded from upstairs. Charlotte startled, jumping slightly in her seat and losing her grip on her tea cup. It shattered to the floor.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded at volume, shaking her fist at the ceiling.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry," Charlotte stammered, reaching toward the porcelain fragments littering the linoleum. "Here, let me—"

"I've got that, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured her. "What would be helpful is if you could go upstairs and talk some sense into that man." She scowled. "It's been nothing but racket since he's started working on his best man's speech. Very disruptive."

"Er, I'm not sure if I would be the most effective—"

"Charlotte, please?" Mrs. Hudson begged. "Greg was around the other day, but it didn't seem to help a thing."

Charlotte was up, nodding dutifully once she realized how frazzled the landlady really was. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I'll give it a go."

She made her way up the stairs to Sherlock's flat and knocked soundly on the door, opening it slowly. "Don't shoot," she requested, coming in with her hands in the air.

Sherlock squinted at her. "Charlotte, what are you doing here?" he wondered.

"I was having tea with Mrs. Hudson. Tuesdays, remember?" Charlotte reminded him.

"Is it Tuesday already?" Sherlock asked. "I've lost track."

"How long have you been at this?" Charlotte inquired, her eyes taking in the state of the room. "Written a few rough drafts, have you?" she commented on the loose papers covering the entire surface of the desk and some of the floor around it.

"If you've come here to mock me, I'd rather you leave," Sherlock told her, giving her a mistrusting look.

Realizing how very earnest Sherlock was being, Charlotte bit back her snark. "Come on, let's see what you have," she offered, gesturing toward the desk.

Sherlock looked hesitant, but acquiesced, taking a seat in the desk chair. Charlotte dragged a spare chair to the other side of the desk so she could sit opposite. "All right," she said. "Where would you like to begin? Do you have a most recent draft?"

Despite the appearance of disorganization, Sherlock was able to procure the sheet immediately, plucking it out of the pile and handing it to her.

Charlotte pored over the writing in silence, which became too much for Sherlock. "You hate it," he surmised, standing with a frustrated growl.

"I don't hate it," Charlotte countered, giving him an incredulous look. "It could use some work, yeah. But—"

"This is no use!" Sherlock lamented. He stormed across the room and flopped himself down on the sofa, defeated.

A summer's breeze swirled through the room at that moment, gently blowing a few of the pages aside to reveal a book beneath. Charlotte picked it up curiously, needing to go no further than the title to understand completely. "Have you been using this?" she asked, holding it up for him to see.

"I've memorized it," Sherlock groaned. "Little help that's done."

"Agreed," Charlotte responded.

Sherlock sat up on the couch, shooting her a look. "If you've come here to mock me—"

"Sherlock, come. Sit," Charlotte instructed, lifting her eyebrows at him.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock pulled himself up off the sofa and made his way back to the desk, slumping down in his seat. "What is it?" he asked.

"This is your problem," Charlotte insisted, indicating the book. She tossed it over her shoulder and it thudded to the ground.

"That's enough, young man!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from downstairs.

Charlotte snorted, covering her mouth to fight back laughter.

Sherlock's demeanor lightened ever so slightly. He cracked a smile before running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"How long has it been since you've slept?" Charlotte asked knowingly.

"A while," Sherlock admitted. "I can't sleep. Not with this—" he gestured around at all his discarded pages— "looming over me."

"I'm going to give you some sound advice," Charlotte told him, causing Sherlock to sit forward in rapt attention. "First, take a nap." She smiled at him. "Then, wake up, make yourself a cup of tea, burn that book, and write."

"It's a bit warm for a fire, don't you think?" Sherlock joked stiffly. He let out a heavy sigh and scrubbed at his tired eyes. "I'm afraid John's asked the wrong person," he confessed, his exhaustion giving way to vulnerability.

"He hasn't," Charlotte reassured him, meeting his eyes. "Sherlock, if John wanted a textbook best man's speech, he could have asked Mike Stamford to give it."

"Mike Stamford is going to be on holiday in August. He couldn't possibly—"

"Not my point," Charlotte redirected, giving him a look. "What I mean is that you're John's best friend. He hasn't chosen you because he's expecting perfection. He's chosen you because he's expecting Sherlock."

Sherlock digested her words in silence. He stared at her openly, as if she would write his speech for him if he looked at her long enough.

"None of us are friends with you for your tact, eloquence, or charisma," Charlotte continued. She couldn't help but crack a smile, teasing him in the gentlest way. "You always keep us on our toes; no one could ever say they had a boring day with you. You're smart and you speak your mind—"

"Sometimes too much, I've heard," Sherlock interjected, surprisingly poking fun at himself.

Charlotte snorted out a soft laugh. "Sure, you miss the boat on some things, but you make up for it in others. I mean, you have…this incredible heart. You're unfailingly loyal. You protect the people you care about…" Her eyes met his toward the end of her speech, but she averted them quickly, feeling suddenly as if she was under a microscope.

"The people I care about…a dangerously small sample size," Sherlock responded quietly. "Makes it glaringly obvious when someone is missing."

Charlotte glanced up to see him looking at her with intensity, though there was an apologetic softness to his gaze. "Charlotte…" Sherlock started, keeping eye contact with her. "…I don't know if I've ever told you how sorry I am—for the choice I made. I know it's been almost three years, but I think I've finally been able to understand the effect it had on everyone else."

Unsure how to respond, Charlotte dropped her eyes once again. She focused on breathing steadily, finding it hard to swallow past a dryness in her throat. She stared intently at her hand, laying palm-down on the desk.

"And I've been fortunate to earn your friendship back," Sherlock continued, his voice still soft. "I know I didn't deserve it, nor did I hold out much hope in those first few months. But… you have a knack for surprising me."

Charlotte finally let out the breath she had been holding, letting it slowly seep out through her nose. Finding the courage to lift her head, she looked him in the eyes. "Thank you," she replied, more steadily than she thought possible. "That… means a lot."

"Didn't think I was capable of an apology, did you?" Sherlock wondered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "It entails admitting that I was wrong."

Charlotte smiled despite herself, feeling like the weight of the conversation had lifted. "I bet you didn't think I could change my mind, either. It entails me not being stubborn as all hell."

Sherlock chuckled gently, settling back into his chair more comfortably. "And I thank you for your counsel on my best man's speech," he said. "Though, I don't know how much use it will be."

"Remember, nap first," Charlotte reiterated, pointing a finger at him. "You're useless this way." She carefully scooted her chair back and stood, readying herself to leave.

"Useless?" Sherlock protested, standing to see her out. "I'm never useless."

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, I'd forgotten," she joked, walking for the door.

Sherlock followed, hovering in the doorway with her.

"Remember to try to have some fun with this whole wedding thing," Charlotte suggested, turning to look up at him. "You've been working your arse off helping John and Mary. You deserve to enjoy some part of it."

"I'll try," Sherlock replied, sounding noncommittal as he smiled down at her.

Charlotte then realized how close they were standing to one another. At one time, she would have moved to embrace him—and she got the discrete sense he was thinking the same. To save them both the trouble, she took a quick step out onto the landing. "Well, I'm running late for work," she told him, bobbing her eyebrows before beginning down the stairs.

"Better hurry," Sherlock insisted. "I hate to imagine what could happen without the most competent person in the building."

"Stop that," Charlotte scolded jokingly, used to this riff by now. She called her goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door onto Baker Street.

* * *

On a weekend in late July, John Watson's bachelor party was under way.

He and Sherlock were at their fourth pub of the night and—after enduring the measured drinks at the first two—John had begun to get creative. Each time Sherlock went to the bathroom, John would order himself a shot and pour a second in Sherlock's drink. It was no different at this stop.

"Cheers!" John cheered as Sherlock reproached their table, lifting his rather large test tube into the air.

"Cheers," Sherlock echoed, knocking his 'glass' with John's and downing the rest of what he thought was his beer.

"Another?" John questioned, looking at his friend hopefully.

His head swimming with the sudden injection of spirits, Sherlock nodded compliantly. "Oh, why not," he replied, waving a hand. "We can go easy at the next one."

"Excellent," John chirped, lurching slightly as he moved toward the bar for a refill.

Sherlock smacked his lips together, his eyes languidly drifting around the pub. He observed a gaggle of younger men grouped around the bar, eyeing women as they passed by. Growing bored with them, he turned to look at the meager dance floor near the small corner stage, where a few people bopped awkwardly or drunkenly—or both.

His eye was drawn to the door when loud squeals of feminine laughter caught his attention. A small group of women trickled in, dressed for the club. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up when he recognized one of them, lingering toward the back of the pack.

Charlotte scanned the pub as she entered, her eye catching Sherlock's at nearly the exact moment. She looked first surprised and then pleased to see him. Even in his altered state, Sherlock didn't miss the self-consciousness that flickered over her features. Though she took great care to look nonchalant, he noticed her pulling the hem of her little black dress closer to her kneecaps—a futile attempt, given the distance it had to cover.

"Charlotte?" John called out—too loud, even given the volume of the music. He waded through the patrons waiting for the bar and set his and Sherlock's drinks down on the table. "What are the chances?"

Charlotte approached their table, having settled for wrapping her jean jacket more tightly around herself to conceal her club-going outfit. "Slim to none," she joked. "I don't know if I've ever seen you two out in the pubs. What are you doing here?"

"'S my stag," John replied, the booze making his diction loose.

Charlotte nodded, realization dawning. Then, her lips curled up in a knowing way. "Are you boys having fun?"

"Quite a lot of fun," Sherlock reported, nodding and grinning dopily. Clumsily, he pulled the stool beside his away from the table. "Care to join us?"

"How could I say no to a drink with John on his stag night?" Charlotte responded. "Although, doesn't my joining you defeat the purpose of a stag?"

John blew out a noise of disregard, waving a hand. "'Course not," he assured her. "You're one of us. Now, I know you and Mary are thick as thieves—but we knew you first, didn't we? We did." He nodded to himself very righteously, taking a hearty sip of his drink.

"Is that jealousy I detect, Dr. Watson?" Charlotte wondered, lifting her eyebrows. She was finding great amusement in his state of inebriation.

John slung an arm around her shoulders, even though she towered over him in her heels. "Charlotte, you know Sherlock's my best friend, but you…you're like….like a sister to me," he told her, nodding as if commending his own choice of words. "I fought Mary to have you standing on my side of the church, you know."

Charlotte chuckled. "John, you know I would have gladly worn a tux on your behalf," she stated, allegiant.

"You wouldn't need a tux," John snorted, finding her statement ridiculous. "Wear whatever you have on. 'S fine."

Charlotte spluttered out a laugh. "Wear this, you mean? This is not a church-going outfit," she countered playfully. "I don't want the lord—or whoever—seeing me like this."

John squinted one eye and looked at her, as if for the first time since she had arrived. "Yeah, quite," he appraised. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"John, I think you're being rude," Sherlock stated, though he sounded unsure. He looked to Charlotte. "Is he?"

"He's harmless," Charlotte replied. She stooped and pecked John on the cheek; the kind of kiss one would give to a small child or their grandmother. "I'm going to go get a drink and tell the girls," she said, untangling herself from John and striding off toward the bar.

"She's lovely, isn't she?" John wondered, smiling as he took a seat. "And to think, you didn't think we needed an intern those years ago."

"One of your brighter ideas," Sherlock commended. He raised his test tube for another toast.

Charlotte returned five minutes later, three drinks in her hands. She set two large glasses down in front of John and Sherlock. "Waters," she informed them.

"We're fine," Sherlock assured her, though he reached almost immediately for the glass. "I've got a system."

"So do I," Charlotte replied cheekily, gingerly sipping her vodka tonic. "The girls are wondering if they can join us," she told them, eyeing her friends over against the bar.

Sherlock looked over at the young women. "Who are they, anyway?" he asked. "You don't have girlfriends except for Mary."

Charlotte smiled amusedly as she bit her straw and shot a furtive glance toward her friends. "They're all former classmates," she explained. "And you'd be surprised how many girlfriends you accumulate when you get dumped. Kind of nice of them, actually. I always thought they didn't much care for me."

"You weren't dumped," Sherlock snorted, as if it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard.

"Yeah, I was," Charlotte countered with certainty. "Properly."

"That was ages ago," John pointed out, too buzzed to worry about tact. "And they're only taking you out now?"

"Real friends are there for the tears," Charlotte explained, thinking of Mary. "These sorts of friends are there for the rebound party."

"The rebound party?" Sherlock questioned, giving her a confused look.

"You know, getting my groove back," Charlotte joked, doing a slight shimmy for effect. "Dress me up like this, take me out, hope to send me off home tonight with some bloke I meet at the club. I think it's supposed to help me feel sexy again, or something. Not really sure." She shrugged a shoulder and sipped her drink.

"Well, here's to that," John said, looking like he'd heard quite enough.

Charlotte and Sherlock clinked their glasses with his and they all took a drink. "So, can I wave them over?" she requested.

"Oh," John said, remembering. "Sure. Of course."

Charlotte waved at her friends, who eagerly approached. "They're all huge fans," she said out the side of her mouth to Sherlock. "Fair warning."

Her friends shouldered in around the table, excitedly introducing themselves to John and Sherlock.

By the time she had finished her drink, Charlotte felt as though she needed another. Her friends had come on strong, alternating between flirting with Sherlock and John and speaking about themselves. She couldn't blame them; 'Watson and Holmes' were like celebrities in their circles.

"I'm going for a refill," Charlotte announced, though no one was paying her any attention.

"I'll go with you," Sherlock stated, standing up readily.

They left John at the table with Charlotte's friends. He seemed to be enjoying answering the questions about his blog and experiences that no one ever asked.

Charlotte sighed out a breath as she leaned up against the bar, waiting to flag down the bartender.

"They're a racket," Sherlock commented, slurring slightly. He leaned against the bar facing her. "I don't much like them."

"Really? I thought you loved attention," Charlotte teased, smirking ever so slightly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the bartender came over to take Charlotte's order.

She turned back to Sherlock. "We can leave," she told him more genuinely. "I don't want to ruin your stag night with John."

"You're not ruining anything," Sherlock assured her. "I'm happy you're here."

Charlotte's lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners.

"John was right, you know," Sherlock continued. "You're part of us. Always will be."

"I think I like drunk Sherlock," Charlotte joked, looking up at him. "He's very complimentary. Anything else to say?"

"I'm sorry you're sad about Jeremy," Sherlock said. "And I think I said something earlier that was very insensitive…Can't remember…But I want to apologize for it if I did."

"It wasn't so insensitive," Charlotte reassured him. "Quite a confidence boost to see someone so shocked that you've been dumped."

Sherlock chuckled, swaying slightly on his feet.

"And I'm not really sad anymore," Charlotte admitted truthfully. "I wouldn't be out like this if I was. I think I've turned a page." She smiled, somewhat proudly.

"Rebound party, it is," Sherlock said jocularly, bobbing his eyebrows.

The bartender handed Charlotte her drink and she accepted it gladly, taking a sip. "Don't tell them, but I'm just playing the part," she fake-whispered to Sherlock. "I'm not trying to go home with anyone."

"No?" Sherlock questioned, interest piqued.

"No," Charlotte confirmed, shaking her head. "I'm dressed like this for me. They can look all they want, but no touching." She wagged her finger.

Sherlock laughed. "I like this," he commented, gesturing at her. "The dress, I mean. It's nice."

"I'm not supposed to look nice," Charlotte protested. "I'm supposed to look sexy, remember? That's the whole point of a rebound party."

"Well, that would be rather inappropriate for me to say," Sherlock replied, bobbing his eyebrows.

"I'm not the intern anymore, Sherlock," Charlotte reminded him, somewhat playfully. "You can say whatever you like."

"I don't want to objectify you," Sherlock told her. "It's never been about that for me. Your brain is far more appealing to me than…"

"My body?" Charlotte questioned, lifting her eyebrows.

"Well, yes," Sherlock confirmed, bashful even in his impaired state. He tried to look anywhere but below her neck.

"Coming from someone who's been quite well-acquainted with my body, that's good to know," Charlotte responded.

"Charlotte, th-that's not what I—"

"Sherlock, I'm messing with you," Charlotte interjected. She chuckled. "I forgot about the whole sarcasm thing."

Sherlock smiled, more out of relief than anything. It was difficult for him not to have his brain working at optimum speed, especially when it came to Charlotte. He was always so worried he would say something he would regret—even at his most sober.

Charlotte sipped her drink in silence for a few moments, eyeing him carefully. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I know we don't really…talk about that."

"It's all right," Sherlock replied. "I mean, it's not like we shouldn't o-or it's forbidden, or something. I just…I don't know what to say. I never know what to say."

"Don't beat yourself up over it," Charlotte responded gently. "It's in the past. We're good now."

"We're good," Sherlock echoed, nodding.

Charlotte smiled up at him, eyes darting toward the restroom."I need to use the loo," she stated. "Can I bother you to watch my drink while I'm gone?"

"Diligently," Sherlock assured her. He watched her as she walked away, smiling drunkenly to himself.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Hi readers! Thanks for tuning in. The format of this chapter is a little different because most of 'A Sign of Three' is told through flashback snippets. I thought it would be cool to try to do it somewhat sequentially, with a few snapshots from the months leading up to the wedding. Let me know what you think! xx**


	15. A Sign of Three: Part II

The day of the wedding began like any other, but was soon moving at an express pace. Charlotte had to arrive early to the inn where John and Mary were hosting their reception to get hair and makeup done. Mary and her party were crammed into one of the inn's rooms, the largest, by the insistence of the innkeeper; used for "this sort of thing" all the time.

There were two stylists between the five of them, so there was ample waiting time involved. Diane and Abigail volunteered to go first, which left Mary, Charlotte, and Janine, the maid of honor, seated on the bed side-by-side in their complimentary robes. They picked at a fruit plate as Charlotte and Janine passed a bottle of champagne back and forth—Mary had insisted she didn't want to peak too soon at her own wedding.

"So, let's get down to it then," Janine said after a few pulls on the bottle. "What kind of talent will be at this wedding, Mary?"

"Talent?" Mary mused, popping a grape into her mouth as though she had no idea what Janine was talking about. "I'm not about to have fire throwers and jugglers at my wedding, am I?"

Janine rolled her eyes, knowing full well Mary was taunting her. "I'm talking about the guest list," she confirmed. "You know…preferably the male part of the guest list."

"Well, if you had helped with invitations, you might know…" Mary teased, putting another piece of fruit in her mouth and bobbing her eyebrows at her friend.

"You know I was tied up with work," Janine replied, unapologetic. "Come on, out with it. What have I got to work with?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," Mary sing-songed, grinning. "Only hours away now."

Janine scowled at Mary as she handed the bottle to Charlotte. "What's the story on Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "I've seen him in the papers—he's very fit. Is he attached?"

Mary snorted, almost losing her grapes. "No, very single. Extremely," she choked out, giggling slightly. "And…I'm not sure he's your type, love."

"Man is my type," Janine corrected. "Especially successful ones. I can't be going 'round with any slouch off the street."

Charlotte sipped out of the bottle of champagne and barely heard Mary's pithy reply. She wasn't stupid enough to think that Sherlock was a diamond in the rough, a little-known secret that only she was privy to. She knew plenty of women found him attractive—Molly, Irene Adler, scores of mega-fans. Yet, somehow, hearing Janine ask after him made her bristle. Jealousy was not a welcome guest, but she knew it when she felt it.

"Yoo-hoo, Charlotte?" Mary waved a hand in front of her face.

Charlotte shook her head and looked at her friend, dazed. "Sorry," she apologized. "Bubbles are going straight to my head." She chuckled quietly.

"Don't you peak too early now," Mary cautioned, giving her a look. "I don't want you falling asleep at the reception."

Charlotte laughed genuinely. "Aye, aye, captain," she said, saluting. "No more champagne for me this morning."

Mary snatched the bottle from her and handed it sideways to Janine. "Now, up you get. It's your turn for hair and makeup."

Charlotte heeded her friend's instructions and scrambled out of bed and into a makeup chair.

Charlotte had never been professionally done-up before, and it was fascinating to watch the stylists work. She found it rather funny that they asked her opinions, as if her input was somehow more valuable than a professional's:

"How would you like your hair, dear?"

"Shall we try for a smoky eye?"

"What do you think of this twist?"

After a couple hours of flurrying movement around her head and face, she was turned toward the mirror to behold their handiwork. At Mary's insistence, they had kept the bridesmaids' hair simple—for her, this meant her chestnut hair had been pulled back into braided bun, with some tendrils loosed to frame her face. Her makeup was lightly applied and natural looking; whatever a smoky eye was, she supposed she liked it.

"Finishing touch," her stylist said, approaching her with a lip crayon. "What do you think of this color?"

Charlotte chuckled softly and shook her head. "What do you think of it?" she returned, grinning.

* * *

A few hours later, they were all congregated at the church, dressed and ready for showtime. Charlotte hurried down the corridor toward the groom's suite, at Mary's request that she check on John and Sherlock.

She knocked tentatively at the door. "Everybody decent in there?" she wondered.

"Charlotte, come in," John's voice beckoned from the other side of the door.

She opened the door to find John pacing. "Sherlock hasn't showed up yet," he fretted. "He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"Yes, he has," Charlotte lied smoothly, not wanting him any more worked up than he already was. "I saw him out in the courtyard. I don't think he knows he's allowed back here. I can go get him."

"Oh, thank God," John exhaled. He scrubbed a hand down his face and then stood looking at Charlotte, smiling weakly. "I suppose I've got a bit of the jitters."

"That's natural," Charlotte reassured him. She walked closer and put her hands on his shoulders, brushing them off. "You look very smart," she told him. "And wait till you see Mary."

This brought a more relaxed smile to John's face. "See, this is why I needed you on my side of the church," John joked. "You're very cool under pressure."

The corners of Charlotte's mouth turned up. "I'll go get Sherlock, all right?" she offered. "May take a minute. I saw him speaking to one of the guests very intently. Probably trying to prove a point." She rolled her eyes.

"Right," John replied, shaking his head. "Well, don't take too long, okay? We're on in ten."

Charlotte nodded and slipped out of the room, then ran as fast as her heels could take her toward the entrance. She scanned the car park and the various taxis pulling up to the curb, taking her phone out of the bodice of her dress simultaneously. "Sherlock…" she growled, typing in his number urgently.

Just as she was lifting the phone to her ear, she saw his cab pull up. She hung up and approached at a fast clip.

Sherlock helped Mrs. Hudson out of the back seat and turned just in time to receive a very flustered Charlotte.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, stopping in front of him with a look of disbelief. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago! John's stressed to the gills!"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as he beheld her, eyebrows lifting.

"Oh, Charlotte," Mrs. Hudson greeted, either not understanding her urgency or not caring. "Don't you look nice."

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," Charlotte greeted, pasting on a smile as she touched the woman's shoulder affectionately. "You look lovely, too. Would you mind if I stole your date for just a moment? He's needed in the church."

Charlotte grabbed Sherlock's hand and flew back toward the chapel's open doors.

"I was working on my speech," Sherlock explained hurriedly, trying to keep pace. "It took to the last minute."

"It had better be good, then," Charlotte told him as they climbed the steps.

"Is John really that worried?" Sherlock asked in a hushed voice as they pulled up at the door.

"Yes, he is. He's got wedding jitters," Charlotte answered in just as hushed a voice, turning to face him with her hand on the doorknob. "If he asks, you've been here the entire time, got it?"

"Crystal clear," Sherlock responded, pursing his lips together to avoid an amused smile.

"What?" Charlotte demanded, looking up at him exasperatedly.

"I was entertaining the idea of telling you how nice you look, but I rather like having all my teeth," Sherlock teased, now fully grinning.

Charlotte smiled despite herself, turning her head so as not to give him the satisfaction. "I suppose I'm a bit wound up," she allowed.

"Like an elegantly dressed spinning top," Sherlock quipped. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't say it to me," Charlotte insisted. She opened the door. "Delivery!"

"Sherlock, where the hell have you been?" John demanded, looking peeved.

"Best be going," Charlotte told them. Smiling and waving before making her way back to Mary.

* * *

The day passed in a glorious blur, even despite the debacle at the reception. By the time evening fell, everyone was in high spirits. Libations flowed and music played throughout the venue, everyone happily swaying along. When the deejay was paused so Sherlock could play John and Mary his composition on the violin, Charlotte found herself in line at the drinks table beside Janine.

"He's something else, isn't he?" Janine commented in a hushed voice, staring at Sherlock with rapt attention as he played.

"Mhm," Charlotte responded, tipping her head in agreement.

"You know him, right?" Janine questioned. "How am I supposed to get his attention?"

"I think you've gotten it," Charlotte replied honestly, having noticed Sherlock's interest in Janine throughout the day.

"Have I?" Janine wondered, looking puzzled.

"Sherlock's subtle," Charlotte informed her. "But he seems at least intrigued." She shrugged her shoulder. "Shoot your shot. See what happens."

"Well, all right," Janine said with an air of excitement. She picked up her drink as Sherlock's song came to a close, set to make a beeline for him. "Thanks, Charlotte." She sauntered away.

"She's a bit of a go-getter, isn't she?" Molly commented with a nervous titter.

Charlotte hadn't even noticed her standing in line with them. "Oh, er…yeah," she answered. "I mean, she knows what she wants. You have to hand it to her."

"He'll never go for it," Molly replied, sounding very sure.

"You don't think so?" Charlotte questioned, raising her eyebrows interestedly.

"No," Molly responded, shaking her head. "She's not his type. Honestly, I've always thought you were." She shrugged a shoulder stiffly and sipped her drink.

Charlotte gave Molly a sideways glance. She had always wondered why the two of them hadn't clicked. Now, it had become glaringly apparent.

"Did you two ever…?" Molly wondered, after a pause.

Charlotte nearly choked on her champagne. She slowly lowered her glass from her lips and gave Molly another sideways glance. Was there a point in lying anymore?

"Yeah," Charlotte replied in the affirmative. "A long time ago."

Molly cleared her throat and looked down into her drink. "You know, I always had a hunch…" She laughed in that nervous way she had.

Charlotte blinked a few times, surprised at what she had just admitted—and to Molly, of all people. However, it was only a moment before she had forgotten the feeling. As time went on, it seemed, what she and Sherlock had shared was becoming less a dirty secret and more a point in time. She let the silence stand.

"Who else knows?" Molly wondered, giving Charlotte a curious look. "I-is it pretty much common knowledge?"

She was wondering if she was the last to know. "Mary knows," Charlotte reported. "My ex knows. That's about it."

"So, probably shouldn't mention anything to John," Molly responded with a tight chuckle.

"I think it might be better coming from me," Charlotte admitted with a slight grimace. "Or…" She shook her head. "Never mind. That would never happen."

Another lull of silence overtook them. "So, you're happy with Tom, then?" Charlotte blurted out, needing to pivot the subject. "I don't know if I ever said congratulations."

"Oh, er, yeah," Molly replied, surprised by the quick switch. "Yeah, we're very happy. Thank you." She nodded and smiled the way someone should when talking about her fiance.

"Good," Charlotte said, returning her smile.

"I'm not sure where's he's gotten to, actually," Molly excused herself, even though Tom could be seen easily from where they stood. "I should go find him."

As Molly walked away, Charlotte scanned the room. She saw John and Mary dancing close, no doubt basking in their happiness. She saw Janine swaying not with Sherlock, but with one of the other wedding guests. She watched as Molly and Tom took the floor not long after. Even Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had caved. Charlotte smiled faintly, knowing that the majority of people she loved were in that room, having a great time—but someone was missing.

Her brow furrowed as she noticed Sherlock's absence. She glanced over the room more carefully, but somehow she knew he wouldn't be there. She downed the last of her champagne and set her empty flute down on the table before making her way toward the entrance.

When she stepped out into the night she saw him, just as predicted. "Where do you think you're going?" she called, watching him make his way down the drive. His steps were slow, almost somber.

The sound of high heels on the flagstones made Sherlock pause his stride. He turned to see Charlotte coming toward him. She had her arms crossed in front of her, bracing against the slight chill of the evening.

"Home," he answered, as if it were obvious.

"So early?" Charlotte wondered, her steps echoing through the courtyard as she closed more distance between them.

"I'm no longer needed here," Sherlock replied simply, shrugging a shoulder.

"Nobody gets invited to a wedding out of necessity, Sherlock," Charlotte reasoned. Then, upon further consideration: "Okay…maybe some people. Distant cousins and your mum's least favorite sister—people like that."

"Have you lost your point? Excellent," Sherlock concluded, nodding at her curtly before attempting to continue his departure.

"You're the best man," Charlotte reminded him. "You certainly weren't invited out of necessity. Mary and John want you here."

"Mary and John are too busy to notice," Sherlock countered, not turning around this time.

"Sherlock, things are going to change," Charlotte reasoned empathetically. "Some things already have."

Sherlock slowly came to a halt, his back still to her. "If you think I'm unaware that things have changed—"

"You didn't let me finish," Charlotte interjected. "Stop thinking you know everything I'm going to say." She placed her hands on her hips. "I was going to remind you that some things will stay the same, too. Your friendship with John. Solving cases together."

"Will you stick around?" Sherlock wondered, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"I will if you will," Charlotte responded, raising her eyebrows at him in a sassy sort of way.

Sherlock turned fully around to face her, cracking a smile despite himself. "I suppose I'm never going to live that one down," he stated.

"I don't suppose you will," Charlotte confirmed.

"Are you still angry with me?" Sherlock asked, meeting her eyes.

Charlotte shook her head. "It takes a lot of energy to be angry," she admitted. "You've paid your dues."

Sherlock brightened at this. "Really?" he wondered.

Charlotte nodded. "I watched how hard you worked to win John back," she explained. "If he was so willing to welcome you back, I wondered why I shouldn't be."

"I wasn't trying to…"

"I know you weren't," Charlotte told him. "You never pushed or tried to force yourself back into my good graces. You gave me the space I asked for." She smiled knowingly. "Which I know was probably near impossible for you."

Sherlock chuckled reservedly, as if hesitant to let his guard down completely. "It's been agony," he responded, more earnestly than he was accustomed.

Charlotte rubbed her upper arms, feeling the goosebumps from the cold. "Have I convinced you to stay yet?" she wondered, cocking her head to the side.

"Dunno," Sherlock mused, mischievous. "What else have you got for me?"

Charlotte feigned looking unamused. "Dance with me," she proposed.

"What is this now?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows. "Pity?"

"Yeah, self-pity," Charlotte countered, laying it on thick. "I've just been watching everyone dance and it's a poignant reminder that I was dumped not too long ago."

"Please," Sherlock snorted. "Where did you say the poor bastard moved to again?"

"Dublin," Charlotte informed him.

"Dublin, Ireland?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes," Charlotte said, looking exasperated. "Would you like me to point it out on a map?"

"Hm," Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"What?" Charlotte demanded.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. "Just isn't that far, is all."

"Thanks for that," Charlotte snorted, shooting him a look. "You know, usually when someone tells you they're enacting a ploy of self-pity, you don't try to make them feel worse."

"You're better off without him," Sherlock stated with certainty.

"And how do you surmise that?" Charlotte wondered, almost daring him.

"Because it should take more than the Irish channel to keep a man from you, Charlotte," Sherlock informed her. "It should take oceans, ice caps…"

"Funny…" Charlotte responded, looking thoughtful. "I hadn't realized there were ice caps between here and Serbia." She looked him square in the face, almost taunting—two could play at that game.

Sherlock stared at Charlotte, slack jawed, wondering whether now would be a good time to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

After an impregnated silence, Charlotte let out a soft peal of laughter. "You're so easy," she teased. She let out a breath and rubbed her arms once again, staving off cold. "Are we dancing or not?"

Sherlock smiled, surprisingly humored. He snorted as he offered her his arm. Wordlessly, Charlotte accepted the gesture, looping her arm in his. "You're ruthless, Green," he told her as they processed back toward the building.

"I mean, come on," Charlotte beckoned. "You walked right into it."

"I suppose I did," Sherlock forfeited, still smiling as he shook his head. He walked beside her in silence for a few paces. "To my credit, I did come back," he murmured. "Even though I didn't have to swim oceans and scale ice caps, I came back."

"I know you did," Charlotte responded, bobbing her eyebrows. "You came back for Mycroft and a terrorist plot. Absolutely irresistible." She turned and smiled at him.

Sherlock stopped to open the door for her. "Yes," he mumbled. "Irresistible."

The dance floor was just as crowded as it had been when she had left. Charlotte and Sherlock made their way to the periphery of the wedding-goers.

"Now, I must warn you," Sherlock told her as the song changed to a mid-tempo song. "I'm one hell of a dancer."

"So I've heard," Charlotte responded, looking impressed. "Mrs. Hudson says you're quite—" She squealed in delight as, in one fluid motion, Sherlock snaked an arm around her waist and clasped her hand in his, dipping her smoothly.

"Quite what?" Sherlock asked, pressing his face as close to hers as he dared, aware of the other guests' proximity.

"Talented," Charlotte gasped out, her chest rising and falling in an exhilarated way.

Sherlock snapped them back upright and went on dancing with her, showcasing his moves.

By the time the deejay played a slow song, Charlotte had worked up light sweat. She let out a sigh of relief and leaned her head against Sherlock's shoulder in exhaustion. Sherlock smiled to himself and swayed with her. "Impressed?" he wondered expectantly.

"Very," Charlotte admitted. "I would not have suspected that dancing was one of your talents."

Sherlock bobbed his eyebrows. "Not many people would, I expect," he replied.

"Where did you learn all that?" Charlotte wondered. "And who on earth did you practice with?" She pulled her head off his shoulder and gave him a scrutinous look. "It was John, wasn't it?"

Sherlock chuckled. "That's for me to know," he answered obscurely.

Charlotte smiled at him, accepting that she might never know. She felt his hand clasped around hers and his other on her waist, her cheek nearly touching his; realizing this is was the closest proximity they had been in in nearly three years. She knew that back then she would have been self-conscious, worried about people seeing them like this. Now, however, she felt nothing of the sort.

"Why is it that Molly keeps looking over here?" Sherlock murmured discreetly.

"I told her about us," Charlotte confessed openly.

"Oh," Sherlock replied, stumped by her admission. He was quiet for a few seconds. "Have you…have you told others?"

"Just Mary," Charlotte admitted to him.

"Mary?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows shooting up. "Mary Watson?"

"No, I told Mary Morstan," Charlotte corrected.

"Ah," Sherlock responded, nodding as if taking it in stride.

"Is that…okay?" Charlotte wondered, glancing at Sherlock with uncertainty.

"Of course that's okay," Sherlock answered her, nodding. "I just…I guess I'm so used to keeping it a secret. I never realized that it doesn't have to be. Not anymore."

"I've begun to feel that way, too," Charlotte told him. "It's just our past, you know? No reason to hide it."

"Does John…?"

"God no," Charlotte responded, snorting out a laugh. "No, I definitely haven't gone there yet."

"Nothing to hide, eh?" Sherlock teased, grinning at her.

"Well, be my guest," Charlotte invited.

Sherlock's face betrayed his cowardice.

"Yeah, exactly my point," Charlotte replied.

"Do you suppose he'll just find out?" Sherlock wondered. "That way, neither of us would have to tell him."

"Maybe he's known all along and isn't bothered," Charlotte proposed.

Sherlock snorted, giving her a look. "Likely."

They ceased talking, moving to the slow melody in comfortable silence. Charlotte felt Sherlock's cheek brush hers and, soon, they were temple to temple.

* * *

"You ever wonder about those two?" John asked Mary as they danced, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock and Charlotte.

Mary looked over her shoulder at the pair and then back at John. "No, not really," she answered, shrugging a shoulder.

"Be a bit weird, wouldn't it?" John wondered.

"Weird bad or weird good?" Mary asked, grinning at how cute her husband was in his oblivion.

"Dunno," John responded honestly. "Just weird, is all."

"Now that you might mention it, I think they could make a good pair," Mary shared. "Don't you?"

"There's a bit of an age difference," John brought up. "I mean, he's quite a bit older than her."

"Yes, but Charlotte's so mature. And Sherlock's…"

"Got remedial emotional skills, at best?" John joked, chuckling.

"You said it, not me," Mary stated, arching her eyebrows and smiling mischievously.

"I don't really think Sherlock thinks in that way, do you? I don't think he has…attractions." John looked uncomfortable just implying it.

"I don't know," Mary replied, smiling as she looked again at Sherlock and Charlotte as they danced closely.

John stared for a moment longer, then lost interest. He stared down at his now-wife, completely enthralled.

* * *

A couple songs later, John and Mary broke apart and headed for Sherlock and Charlotte, who were both panting slightly after coming off of a fast-paced song. "Switch up?" Mary proposed.

"Sure," Charlotte answered, nodding readily. John offered his hand and she took it, following him a few paces off.

The song had switched to a slower one, saving both of them from having to figure out the footwork. John smiled at her drunkenly, feeling both the alcohol and the overwhelming merriment of the night. "Having fun?" he asked.

Charlotte nodded. "So much, actually," she answered, breaking into a smile. "It's been a wonderful day."

"Not missing Jeremy then, eh?" John wondered.

Surprising even herself, Charlotte realized she hadn't thought about Jeremy all day, albeit during her conversation with Sherlock in the courtyard. "Not at all," she admitted.

"Good," John replied, nodding and looking pleased for her. "I always liked Jeremy very much," he told her. "But I don't think he was your Mary."

"I couldn't have said that better myself," Charlotte agreed. "I'll always be grateful to him for getting me through a tough time, but it hit me the other day that we had an expiration date from the beginning. We wanted to lead such different lives. He wanted to live in the Irish countryside, I didn't want any part of that. He wanted someone to stay home with the kids—I don't even want them."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Really?" he questioned.

Charlotte nodded.

"Well, that's probably for the best," John figured. He tried to fight a proud smile but failed miserably. "Wouldn't want you to have conflicting responsibilities. Seeing as you'll soon be someone's aunt rather soon."

It took Charlotte a second to work out exactly what John was saying, but when it clicked she let out a loud, excited shout: "What?!"

John was smiling ear to ear.

"How long have you known?" Charlotte gasped, smiling uncontrollably.

"Sherlock diagnosed Mary a couple hours ago," John joked.

* * *

Sherlock and Mary glanced over at Charlotte's exclamation. "Looks like John shared the news," Sherlock surmised, smiling coyly.

"Looks like it," Mary responded, unsurprised. "I knew he wouldn't be able to keep it to himself for long."

"Certainly not," Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. He cleared his throat and was quiet for several seconds. "I've recently found out that you've become privy to…a lesser known fact about me."

Mary didn't catch Sherlock's meaning initially, looking deeply confused. When she caught him glance at Charlotte, understanding washed over her. "Oh, yes," she replied. "Charlotte told me some time ago, now."

"I appreciate your discretion," Sherlock told her genuinely.

Mary snorted. "You think I'm going to deprive you and Charlotte of John's reaction?" she asked amusedly. "No way."

Sherlock smiled, looking over her shoulder at John and Charlotte dancing.

"Although, I must say I will never understand why you would want to keep it a secret," Mary admitted.

"I wanted to scream it from the rooftops," Sherlock confessed candidly, his voice quiet as a secret. "When it first happened, I felt like I finally…understood. Like I had made some grand discovery I hadn't known I was looking for." He grew quiet.

"But then I had to consider the stakes for her. She was in a vulnerable position and I couldn't be the one to deprive her of all she could become."

"All she's become," Mary corrected. "She's done it, Sherlock. Everyone who's anyone knows she's worth her salt and then some." She gave him a searching look. "So, what's stopping you now?"

Sherlock averted his gaze. "That was years ago, Mary. I hardly even—"

"Oh, come on," Mary interrupted him, actually laughing. "Don't give me that. After what I just saw out here? No way."

"I disappeared for two years," Sherlock reminded her, a slightly pained look overcoming him. "Nothing I do is redemption enough. What is it they say? The moment has passed?"

"Yes, that's what they say," Mary answered. "But that's not what I see."

Sherlock looked slightly sullen, having none of the optimism that Mary had.

"If you were to find out—"

"Yes," Sherlock interjected, sensing her question before it had come. "In a heartbeat."

* * *

In the later hours of the night, the music finally ceased to play. John and Mary said their goodbyes and headed for their room. The guests dispersed slowly at first, collecting discarded shoes and searching through piles of coats to find theirs. Once engines were started and taxis began arriving, the crowd thinned considerably.

There was a sharp chill to the night by this point; Sherlock shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it around Charlotte's shoulders. "Thank you," she replied, wrapping it more fully around herself.

"Want to share a cab?" Sherlock asked as they waited in the queue. Mrs. Hudson had departed earlier, claiming tiredness. "Too much wine with dinner," Sherlock had joked slyly to Charlotte out the side of his mouth.

"Sure," Charlotte answered.

They were some of the last in line and by the time a car arrived for them, Charlotte felt as though she couldn't stand on her heels any longer. She plopped herself heavily in the back seat of the taxi, finally unburdened. Sherlock slid in beside her and closed the door, reciting her address to the driver. They sat shoulder to shoulder as the car rumbled down the gravel drive.

"Did you have fun?" Charlotte asked, angling slightly in her seat to face Sherlock.

"I did," Sherlock admitted, smiling tiredly. "I actually did."

"Good," Charlotte responded. "I told you you deserved it, after all you went through for your best man's speech—which was incredible, by the way."

Sherlock inclined his head humbly. "Well, if it weren't for you, I would be long asleep right now," he reminded her. "Thank you for saving me from my own…you know."

"Anytime," Charlotte responded. She kicked off her heels. Then, leaning a lot of her weight into Sherlock, she folded her long legs up onto the seat beside her so she could rub her feet. The car lurched to a stop and she almost fell face first off the seat.

Beside her, Sherlock wrapped an arm securely around her so she would stay in place. Charlotte leaned her head back against Sherlock's shoulder, sighing out in relief. "I could sleep right here," she murmured, feeling his heart beating against her back. At that point, she knew it was inevitable.

"Be my guest," Sherlock invited, softly chuckling.

As he spoke, his breath tickled Charlotte's ear and sent shivers down her spine. Wordlessly, she sat up, her legs unfurling back toward the floor of the taxi. She twisted around and took his face in her hands, pulling herself closer until their lips were pressed firmly together.

Sherlock stiffened for the briefest of moments and then his arms ensnared her, wrapping, groping, feeling every bit of her he possibly could.

Charlotte ran her hands through Sherlock's hair, forgetting where they were. She could have forgotten her own name in the rush of endorphins that descended upon her. She kissed him with a vigorous hunger, their breath mingling to form a hot, writhing electricity between them. His fingers wove through her hair, pulling it loose of the hairstylist's trappings.

It came as a shock to both of them when the cab driver took a sharp turn toward the curb and stepped on the brakes. "Here," he barked.

"Th-thank you," Sherlock babbled as he came up for air. He fumbled in his pockets for the money he owed the cab driver, luckily procuring it and slapping it into his palm. As he did, Charlotte collected her high heels, clutching them in her hands as she climbed out of the car after Sherlock.

"Have a good night," the driver snipped, pulling away from the curb practically before they had shut the door.

Without the hum of the engine or the soft murmur of the radio in the background, the silence engulfed them. They stood on the sidewalk facing each other, soft plumes of breath rising into the night; it struck Charlotte that it was rather cold for August.

"Should I hail another taxi?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. He looked at Charlotte with such longing that it was hard to believe he had anything else on his mind.

Charlotte shook her head. "No," she answered, clear as a bell. "No, I don't think you should."

Sherlock approached her more slowly than she would have thought possible. He touched her face gingerly, his forefingers on her jawline, thumbs gently caressing her cheekbones.

"I want you to stay with me," Charlotte uttered, all the breath gone from her lungs. "I want you tonight. I'm done pretending I don't."

Sherlock bowed his head and kissed her softly, nothing like the way she had sprung at him in the car. She closed her eyes and savored the warmth of him, the intensity with which he held her. When finally he pulled away, she reached for his hand.

Together, they walked up to her third story flat, both silent in their anticipation. It had been nearly three years since the last time—and it was clear this was present on their minds. Would it be different? Would _they_ be different? Or was it possible they would still know each other, as if no time had passed at all?

As soon as they were inside her flat and the door was bolted against the world, they were at each other. Charlotte's dress fell away, the bobby pins wrested from her hair by Sherlock's deft fingers. His shirt and tie, his trousers were gone in moments.

Charlotte was on her bed, flat on her back with Sherlock's hand between her legs, pleasure emanating from wherever he touched. His breath was hot on her neck as he kissed her, drawing soft sounds from the back of her throat.

"Charlotte," Sherlock breathed, face inches from hers, his expression questioning. Her thighs gripped his waist, muscles quivering in anticipation. "Do we have a condom?"

Charlotte shook her head, panting. "I have an IUD implanted. We don't need one," she told him. "As long as you don't…"

"I've been with no one else," Sherlock assured her, knowing she wasn't asking, but that it would answer her question. He gazed down at her, gently brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Is there more I can do for you first?"

"There will be plenty of time for that," Charlotte murmured back. "I don't intend on sleeping tonight." She smiled before craning upward to kiss him. He kissed her back passionately as his hips glided forward.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** **Thought about putting a disclaimer at the top about the ~M-rated~ scene, but didn't want to spoil anything. Sorry if anyone was offended. Whether you were or weren't, tell me what you think! Did you see this coming? Did you think you would have to wait longer? Did you think that was truly the end of Sherlock and Charlotte? Thanks for reading, as always. xx**


	16. A Sign of Three: Part III

Making good on Charlotte's prediction, she and Sherlock were up all night. They had been unable to get enough, rediscovering each other until sunlight began to creep in between the curtains shrouding Charlotte's bedroom. When they finally succumbed to rest it was the exhausted, dreamless, sound sort of sleep that hangs over the entire room.

Charlotte awoke to the sound of distant whistling, emanating from some far-off dreamscape. As she came out of her deep sleep, she felt for Sherlock beside her. Last she remembered, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Opening her eyes, she found that he wasn't in bed at all. She propped herself up on her elbows and sighed out groggily, realizing she should have figured it would be like this—after all, it always had been.

That was when the whistling got louder and she realized it hadn't been in her dream at all—it was her kettle. She smiled to herself and climbed out of bed, noting the sore muscles and aching parts of her body after the previous night's activities. She crept toward the kitchen on tiptoe, peering around the corner.

"I know you're there," Sherlock said, not looking up from whatever he was doing. "But I'm going to pretend I don't so you have a chance to hop back into bed."

Charlotte grinned and scampered back toward her room, leaping onto her bed and quickly pulling the covers over herself. Sherlock followed close behind, a steaming mug in one hand and a plate in the other. He walked over to her side of the bed and bent to kiss her forehead, setting the mug down on her nightstand as he did so. He then offered her the plate.

"Breakfast in bed?" Charlotte questioned, grinning ear to ear as she accepted it.

"Breakfast in bed," Sherlock echoed, stooping more fully to kiss her mouth.

Charlotte kissed him back, eyes fluttering shut. When they pulled apart, she glanced down at her plate.

"My know-how in the kitchen is lacking, to say the least," Sherlock admitted openly. "But I know how to butter a piece of toast and fry a sunny egg."

"Sorry I didn't have much to work with in way of ingredients," Charlotte responded understandingly. "I haven't been to the shops yet for the week."

"Quite all right," Sherlock rolled carefully into bed beside her, patting her thigh as he lay there. "I wouldn't have known what to do with it, anyway."

"No breakfast for yourself?" Charlotte questioned, looking down at him as she bit into her toast.

Sherlock smiled. "You only had one piece of bread and one egg," he told her.

Charlotte chuckled. "Wow, you really had to make sure you got it right the first time then," she teased. She moved the plate in her lap so it was closer to him. "We can share, if you like."

"It's all right," Sherlock assured her, gazing up at her with his blue eyes.

"Well, you should at least have my tea," Charlotte told him, reaching over to her nightstand and handing the steaming mug over to him.

Sherlock grimaced as he sat up in bed to accept it. "I remembered after I'd made it that you're a coffee person," he confessed. "But I think we should both be grateful I didn't tamper with the coffee maker."

Charlotte smiled over at him, completely smitten. She chewed on her mouthful of toast. "I thought you'd gone," she told him in a soft voice.

Sherlock looked over at her, knowing exactly what she meant without having to ask. "The other times we spent the night together, it was a necessity," he reminded her. He silently wrapped his free hand around hers, intertwining their fingers. "When I imagined what it would be like to stay with you, it always seemed too good to be true."

"Well?" Charlotte wondered. "Did it live up to your wildest expectations?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock responded, leaning down to kiss her bare shoulder and letting his lips rest there, brushing her skin as he spoke. "Better, actually."

Charlotte laughed, the sound more like an amused sigh.

"I missed you," Sherlock stated, his voice both heavy and hushed. He let the statement hang there, suspended.

"And not just this part of you," he continued, his head still on her shoulder. "I remember the day you could stand to be in the same room as me again felt like a bloody holiday."

He glanced up tentatively, as if afraid she had disappeared while he was talking. He watched as she stared back, unspeaking, her lips arcing into a blissful smile.

"I missed you, too," Charlotte admitted, shaking her head as she said it. "Against my better judgment, I did." She chuckled gently, in an almost teasing sort of way.

Sherlock sat up, placing his mug on the nightstand in order to use both hands to take her face. He kissed her long and deeply, soft gusts of breath drawing in and out of his nose as he refused to let his lips leave hers.

Charlotte set her plate blindly on the nightstand, shoving it clumsily with her palm to make sure it was secure before rolling on top of Sherlock. Their kiss continued as she straddled him, feeling his warm hands trace her ribcage, her hips, her buttocks.

When his hands caressed her inner thighs and then ventured further inward, she recoiled slightly. He retracted his touch, glancing up at her in confusion. "I'm sorry," he uttered. "Did I…?"

Charlotte shook her head. "It wasn't you. But I think it's a no-go this morning," she told him, grimacing in disappointment. "Even marathon runners need recovery time."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "Does it…hurt when I touch you?"

Charlotte nodded, but not in complete commitment. "I don't think anything would be excruciating, but I do not think it would be pleasant, either."

"Ah," Sherlock responded. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled over onto his side, taking her with him. He held her tightly and breathed in the scent of her hair. "This will do just fine," he murmured. "I'm a bit knackered, to tell you the truth."

Charlotte ran her fingers over the fine hairs that lined his arms, her back to him. "I thought you had no limit," she joked. "I thought you were about to ask for more last night—next thing I knew, you were snoring."

"Did I fall asleep first?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised. He supposed his head had been so clouded with endorphins, his memories were hazy.

"Yes, you did," Charlotte answered, softly snickering.

Sherlock sighed out peacefully and let his eyes flutter shut, basking in the moment. A few silent seconds passed before he spoke again. "I had a chat with Mycroft," he told her.

Charlotte made a face. "I think I'd like to put a ban on talk of your brother while we're in bed," she responded.

"I'll be brief," Sherlock reassured her, smiling to himself. "I asked him why he hadn't told me about your teas."

"Mmm?" Charlotte requested, wanting him to continue.

"Turns out, he purposefully held back as much information about you as possible while I was gone," Sherlock explained. "He told me only as much as he needed to—general bits of information some light surveillance would catch."

"Are you saying your brother implied he had me surveilled and that didn't concern you?" Charlotte wondered.

"Charlotte, my brother has more people under surveillance than you would believe," Sherlock told her. "It's hardly a compliment or reason for concern."

"Go on," Charlotte invited, still not entirely comfortable with the notion.

"He worried that if he told me too much that I might be tempted to return before my mission was complete," Sherlock continued.

"Was he right to worry?" Charlotte wondered.

Sherlock grew quiet, potentially mulling over her question, or perhaps deciding how detailed he should get. "Yes," he answered after a beat. "I thought of you nonstop in the beginning. We had left things so…"

"Open-ended?" Charlotte completed his thought.

Sherlock hummed in the affirmative. "There was part of me that wanted to wait a few weeks at most before returning," he admitted. "But my brother reasoned me out of it—insisted that none of you would be safe until all of Moriarty's network were taken out."

"Did you believe that?" Charlotte wondered. "That they wouldn't be safe until you had gotten every last one of Moriarty's people?"

"Eventually, I came around to my brother's way of thinking," Sherlock confirmed. "And that's what kept me going all those months. It was the idea that I was keeping you all out of harm's way…" His voice drifted off toward the end, as if his mind was onto something else entirely.

"Why do you keep saying 'they?'" he questioned, sounding like it was something that had been on his mind. "—'that ' _they'_ wouldn't be safe'—" He repeated.

"Dunno," Charlotte responded, grateful she was facing away from him so he couldn't read her expression. "Slip of the tongue, I guess. Of course I mean 'we.'"

"But you said it before, too," Sherlock stated, recalling the only other time they had had words about his disappearance—that day in her office. "You said 'hits on _their_ lives,'" he recited, as if the conversation had happened moments before, not almost a year prior.

"Maybe I was speaking in the third person?" Charlotte tried, trying her best to sound nonchalant. "Sherlock, I don't know. Why does it matter?"

"There's something you're not telling me," Sherlock said, removing his arms from around her and sitting up. "Why?"

Charlotte sat up too, looking at him squarely. "Sherlock," she said placatingly, her brow knitted. "Why are you so stuck on this?"

"Why are you evading me?" Sherlock demanded softly, looking both hurt and frustrated. "You're hiding something."

"I'm entitled to my secrets," Charlotte replied levelly.

Sherlock looked taken aback. "So, you admit it. You're keeping something from me."

"How can I keep anything from you when you're…you?" Charlotte wondered exasperatedly. "You can deduce it right out of me. It's not…"

"Fair?" Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.

"Can't you just trust me enough to believe it's something you don't want to know?" Charlotte asked, gazing at him steadily. "Can you trust that it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things?"

"If it doesn't matter, why keep it from me at all?" Sherlock countered.

"You don't want to know," Charlotte stated more strongly.

"Of course I want to know," Sherlock pressed. "Knowledge is all I can rely on. It's the barrier between me and—"

"Other people?" Charlotte interjected.

"Precisely," Sherlock responded, as if it were obvious.

Charlotte looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "What have I done to be so undeserving of your trust?" she questioned.

"Charlotte, I do trust you," Sherlock responded, looking shocked that she would think otherwise. "I-I've told you that before, I—"

"Then why didn't you trust me enough to keep your secret?" Charlotte demanded. "Why did Molly Hooper and your brother get that privilege, but I didn't?"

Sherlock gaped at her, not having expected the subject to be breached that morning. After all, it had been nearly a year and they hadn't spoken about it once.

"Is it just sex?" Charlotte questioned, glaring Sherlock down for an answer. "Is that all I'm good for or just all you trust me to be good at?"

"That is not it," Sherlock contradicted firmly. "You know that's not it."

"I thought I did," Charlotte admitted, shaking her head. "But it's hard to feel like you meant anything to someone who left you behind." Tears budded in the corners of her eyes. "God, maybe I was wrong to think I was ready for this," she uttered, covering her eyes.

"Charlotte, please," Sherlock pleaded, desperate. He gripped her shoulders gently as he looked down into her face. "Tell me everything you're thinking. Everything you've ever wanted to say to me. I-I promise I'll withstand anything, as long as it means I don't have to be without you again."

"You never had to be without me, in the first place," Charlotte rasped, meeting his eyes with a sad gaze. "I understand that the people you loved were in danger, but you chose to keep most of us in the dark."

"I…" Sherlock stared down at her, blinking. "I have no defense," he confessed. "I did choose—and I chose wrong. I'm sorry."

Charlotte nodded and glanced away, swallowing hard. "For months I was strapped with guilt," she admitted in a near-whisper. "I thought I could have stopped you from doing it; that I could have helped if you were certain I wouldn't be in danger."

Sherlock was no longer following. "What do you mean?" he questioned. "You were in danger like everyone else. Moriarty had assassins—"

Charlotte shook her head, cutting him off. "There was never a hit on me," she confessed. "Moriarty needed me alive." She looked up at him to let him know she was serious. "That's why I say 'they,' not 'we.'"

"How could you possibly know that?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow.

"Moriarty visited Baker Street the night before everything happened—before you faked your death," Charlotte replied defeatedly, finding no point in hiding it anymore. "You and John were on the run from Scotland Yard."

Sherlock was stunned into silence, his blinking the only sign of life. "What happened?" he asked.

"We sat in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and talked," Charlotte answered.

"What about?" Sherlock wondered, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"You know how he is. He talks on and on about himself and it's your job to decipher what he actually meant by any of it." Charlotte shook her head, still remembering their conversation vividly. "I ended up figuring it out in the end—he wanted me to commemorate him after he was gone.

"He needed me," Charlotte went on. "He needed someone to reveal his master plan after it was all said and done. He wouldn't let himself die without ensuring everyone would know how smart he was." She snorted softly in disdain. "That's how I knew he wouldn't try to have me killed."

"So, your thesis…" Sherlock said, his brow knit as he looked at her—as if he were appraising a stranger.

"It wasn't for him," Charlotte asserted, realizing only after she said it how defensive it sounded. "It was always meant to vindicate you. I think he fully expected both of you to die at St. Bart's that day. He knew I couldn't write about one of you without writing about the other—I was trapped."

"Trapped," Sherlock sniffed, slightly disbelieving. "How could anyone in your field pass up the opportunity to be James Moriarty's ghost writer?"

"The work was mine," Charlotte defended, growing vexed. "I did all the research, drew all the conclusions for myself. What he left me was breadcrumbs, Sherlock. Not a manuscript."

"Breadcrumbs," Sherlock snorted, reminded of one of Moriarty's last ensnarements.

"That's not what I—it's just a phrase, Sherlock," Charlotte responded, exasperated. "And don't talk about 'my field' like it's some bad word. Like because I'm a psychologist I'm somehow more fanatical about James Moriarty than you are."

"Fanatical?" Sherlock scoffed. "He was a worthy adversary, but do remember he tried to force me to kill myself." He glowered at her.

"And you loved it all, up until that point," Charlotte said, seeing straight through him. "The thrill it gave you to crack his latest puzzle, to foil his elaborate schemes." She shook her head. "He was a break in the mundane, something unsolvable—how could someone like you not be drawn to someone like him?"

Sherlock looked unable to handle what she was saying. "What are you trying to say?" he asked.

"I'm trying to say it's unfair for you to treat me like I sold out," Charlotte told him. "To act like it should have been easy for me to turn down his proposition."

"It's why you didn't want to tell me, isn't it?" Sherlock questioned. "You didn't want me to know that the paper you claim was written to vindicate me was actually all based on some sick infatuation with the madman who put you up to it."

"Wow," Charlotte said, her eyebrows flagging. She stepped back and away from him, headed toward the bathroom.

She turned back to look at him as she stood in the doorway. "I didn't want to tell you because I thought it might hurt you in some way. I didn't want you to feel conspired against. I never considered that you would resent me for trying to further my career. That's why you used to say we couldn't be together, wasn't it?"

She paused, letting out a gust of breath. "Maybe we're better at this." She gestured haphazardly toward the bed. "Sleeping together and keeping it at that. If this is what happens when we're still here in the morning…" She shook her head. "I just don't know how that's ever going to work."

"Charlotte—"

"I need some time," Charlotte cut him off. She retreated into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sherlock heard the water go on and he swallowed past the dryness in his throat. Deflated, he began to collect his clothes off the floor of Charlotte's room.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE : Hey ya'll. This one's a little on the shorter side, but there's a lot to delve into here. Let me know what you think! xx**


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